As Nils Hansen lay on the dead grass of Unn's grave mound, watching the red sun set beyond the silhouetted pines, he felt the subliminal tremor of black wings behind him.
The dragonfly halted with a soft pouf of displaced air. Hansen waited for the second vehicle to land, but this time there was only one. He rose to a sitting position and turned.
Krita walked toward him. The sunset deepened and enriched the color of her lips and long, lustrous hair.
Hansen nodded, then looked back toward the west again.
The woman sat down beside him. She raised her knees and locked them with her forearms, holding her torso upright.
Krita wore a suede singlet. It was a light garment for the season, but Hansen himself was dressed in only the linen shirt and breeches he had worn at Solfygg that morning in his battlesuit.
The flattened ball of the sun disappeared. The ragged pines stood out sharply against the red and purple light it bled across the sky.
"Do you come here often?" Krita asked.
An owl banked close to the humans, hunting for voles. The bird's soft-feathered wings were soundless, but it made a krk-krk-krk sound deep in its throat as it passed.
"Yeah," Hansen said. "I . . ."
After a moment, he added, "I should've come more often before. While she was still alive."
"I miss her too," Krita said. "But I couldn't stay in the palace, knowing she had you."
Hansen looked at the woman. "Nobody has anybody," he said harshly. "Nobody owns anybody."
Krita reached out and touched his cheek, brushing her fingertips down the whiskers Hansen had allowed to grow while he lived as a warrior in the Open Lands.
"I miss her too," the woman repeated.
Hansen put a hand on Krita's shoulder, then leaned forward to kiss her as the first stars came out in the sky behind them.