He never has let me say the word aloud, though he must have heard it a thousand times by now in my heart. He will interrupt, or he will turn to leave - or as he sometimes does when he wants to startle someone, he will simply vanish, before it has the chance to pass my lips.
It's almost as if it frightens him. Him. He who can drag demons raging from other planes and force his will upon them, who smiles as he spits in the face of the church and the considerable military powers that back it, who sees the end of all existance in his dreams. And yet this one small word is enough to make him run from me.
Unsurprisingly, he will not say it either - not in any form, except as it relates to the gods. But he is not a god, though some may think otherwise, and therefore his attributing this sentiment to the gods does not give me any indication of what he feels.
I did gather up enough courage to ask him once, indirectly - over a quiet dinner in the common room of an inn, where he could not run away so easily. "What would you call me?" I asked.
He mocked at first, of course, without skipping a beat, and perfectly straightfaced beneath the deep hood which kept him hidden from those present who might have an eye on our bounty. "I call you Hardin."
"So you do." I gave him a smile, just to indulge him. "If you were to speak of me, what would you say I am? Your second? Your friend and companion? Or merely one of your followers?"
His mouth tightened then, and his eyes turned cold.
"Am I another of your consorts, Sydney?" I continued. "Or would you say that I am your-"
He cut me off with a shake of his head. "I would not call you 'my' anything."
Needless to say I was disappointed, if perhaps not surprised. But after I had fallen silent, not wishing to press the issue, suddenly he rose from our table, chuckling under his breath with cruel amusement as he turned away from me. "Hardin... you are not 'my' anything - you are simply 'mine'."
Though it shames me to admit it, those words thrilled me more than they frightened me.