We carry our bridges, from birth until death. If I name it the soul, then it is no wonder I ever fear the flood, the fire, the avalanche. Or the gnawing waste of disease, and every hidden, unseen place of neglect. But these two companions, holding me up at either end, ah, I set too vast a weight upon them.

He understood the nature of love, such as he felt for his fellow husbands. They stood aligned and together, with Lasa Rook opposite them. The specifics were not relevant. No soul deserved to stand alone, and families both found and made served the same purpose. In his dreams, it was this that he saw swept away, time and again. In his dreams, he ever ended up alone.

There would be an army, clustered around Hood and his vow. Tathenal was certain of it. An army such as no world had ever seen before. Its enemy was impossible, but that did not matter – no, in truth, it was that impossibility that would give the army its strength. He could not explain his certainty; could make little sense of his faith. But he would see that army, and, perhaps, join it.

I will step off the edge of this bridge. Knowing what will come of that. And it may be that, when the end comes, I will understand. Death will defeat time, when nothing else can. Lasa Rook, beloved wife, will you see the glory of that?

He did not believe any of the others would follow him, especially not Lasa Rook, and he was settled with that final departure.

It would be better, he decided, if he dreamed of that army. He knew, when at last he joined the ranks, his dreams of disaster would leave him. An end to my fear of being alone. An end to a soul’s solitude, when death at last arrives. There is something in that, something in there, that comforts.

Hood, your army will be vast.

Garelko made his way along the trail, taking the lead and so setting the pace. He deemed this the proper thing, since he was the eldest. He imagined himself the silver-muzzled wolf, the noble king, the wizened veteran of a thousand hunts. Our quarry is elusive, to be sure. But my mind’s eye is sharp. I see her swaying hips, and those buttocks, smooth as damp clay, as giant pots, two fused into one, rolling as she walks. A behind to bury your face in, with breath held, of course. But still, I will lunge without hesitation.

Not a wolf, but a sea lion, fierce and weighty, yet elegant in the water. In the midst of a surging wave, rushing for the crevice, the niche in the stone wall of her coy indifference. The echoes of her yelp will be as music to my soul.