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There was little challenge in assembling each scene of destruction, plucking free the specific details, and then recognizing the singular fear hidden behind them all. Worse, he was hardly unique in his terror of death. Warriors marched into its face at every battle, and their courage was but the visible side of the mask, when the unseen side, flush against the skin of their faces, was cold and clammy with fear. Wives who commanded the hearth, as mistresses of the farm and its myriad denizens, wove blankets, or pushed the dust from the rooms; they dragged husbands or lovers to their furs and blazed like fires against the darkness. Herders counted their flocks and sought signs of wolves on the mountain paths. Wood-carvers gathered dead trees and fought their own kind of war, seeking resurrection in what they made. Poets and hearth-singers pulled threads from tattered souls, eliciting emotions which, in the end, were proofs against death.
The enemy forced every act, every deed. The enemy pursued, or stalked, or waited in ambush. It could not be defeated, and it never lost.
Tathenal understood the Jaghut, Hood. He understood this summoning, and the outrage that gave it such appeal. He understood, as well, the futility of it.
Middle among the husbands, he found himself upon an ever-moving bridge, with the youth, Ravast, carrying one end, and the elder, Garelko, the other. Their positions were fixed, but the march through time could not pause, not for an instant. Until death came
to take one of them. Then, the journey would stagger, stumble and slide. In a predictable world, Garelko would fall first, and Tathenal would find himself taking the old man’s place, as the new eldest, and if Lasa Rook was as unchanging as she seemed, then Ravast would find himself upon that bridge, trapped in the middle, with a new youth upon the other end.
It was an awkward construct in Tathenal’s mind, and yet it held, stubborn and persistent. He did not particularly like it, sensing its lack of artistry, and, indeed, its lack of purpose. It is simply how we are. A stupid thing to consider. A bridge? Why a bridge? What unknown torrent does it span? And why am I alone in finding my feet not upon solid ground, but upon an uncertain purchase? When I at last find myself the eldest, will I step with relief upon some future shore, some river’s verge or chasm’s blessed ledge? And, should I arrive there, what will I see ahead of me?
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.
And the swell of her belly! See these hands? They are made to cup such wonder, to stroke and gather in the folds that proffer wealth, like bolts of the softest cloth. Are we not sensual creatures? And do not the rough edges of age, these calluses and brittle nails, bely the tenderness of a loving touch? Or eager lust, for that matter?
The pup sneers, as only pups can, but such haughtiness is flimsy disguise over inexperience. I see through him, indeed, and think nothing of his airs. Youth has that swollen self to contend with, while I am past such conceits. Like an animal I will roll in my pleasures, and make of her a sack of moans.
She thinks us dead. She gasps in the arms of Hanako, no doubt, even at this very moment! Well, what’s another husband to add to the milling herd? It is experience she will long for, before too long, and by the time we find her, well, I see her eyes light up like torches in a cave.
Behind and belly, and now her breasts.
Weight and heft, sweet as bladders of wine, and my hands such a perfect fit beneath each fleshy pronouncement! Why, she could smother a horse with those twin tomes of sensuality! I see the animal dead with a smile on its face – no, a moment, such an image alarms my sensitive self. We shall send the horse back into the field; she can smother something else … think on it later.
We are hunters, and she the quarry. That much is plain. Unencumbered, as far as notions go.
I didn’t even believe in dragons. Slithering myth, seductive legend, scales and forked tongue, wings and whipping tail! An outrageous interruption to our conversation. Eating a skinned bear, no less! Was it so dainty of sensibility as to peel the beast before devouring? How curious! How ignoble for the Lord of Temper!
Dragons! Whence came the wretched thing?
But in rank decay, how mundane. Yet, was it not noble in form? No, it was not. A vile thing, this hoary beast of legend. We shall have to kill every one we come across, if only to appease the symmetry of sweet nature. Such insults must not go unchallenged.
I will take her from behind, and then from the front, fighting her breasts as if wrestling two bags of ale with stuck stoppers. Pull, you fool! Twist and pull!
The wizened wolf knows well its prey. A thousand hunts, a thousand conquests, and this trail is older than you might think, and yet, old man or not, I find it fresh as strawberries!
The pup knows nothing of this. Even Tathenal barely comprehends. The sweetness of life is anticipation. This, then, is our real moment of glory, yet listen to them, grunting and gasping as we climb yet another mountain’s backside, about to plunge into the crack of the pass, and crawl our way down its length – be tempted not by any caves you might spy, my fellow husbands! They are but distractions! She runs in order to be caught!
Ah, Lasa Rook, beloved, your sweat should taste sweet as wine. Which we can achieve, once I pour wine all over you.
Is not the mind a wondrous world? That thoughts and aspirations can cavort with such glee? That desires can spool out into such wild mess as to tangle every sense, and confound the spirit in a welter of delicious indulgence!
Reality stands no chance against such inner creations.
