amaroq
in his own country
Death can be kind
Death can be kind
“I would rather the gods not see me at all,” he says, soft and dry as dead autumn leaves. From what he has heard in his few trips near the city he is not the only one to think so; Amaroq knows no more of the local gods than their names but the ways he heard them spoken was hardly praise.
But the wolf’s gods were not the kind to watch. Their country was the stars that set his course and the frigid depths too cold for life, where bodies drifted after death. They did not look like him and they did not care for him, but they gave his people sharp teeth and sharp horns and sharp wits when the other two failed.
Amaroq’s people built no temples, but each successful hunt was a kind of worship.
Even his tail has fallen still as he stares down at the shimmering sea. His hair floats around him in the breeze, pale wisps of sea-foam and silver cloud, and when at last Metaphor’s voice makes him turn it is with a shake of his head.
At the words of caution a lupine smile draws across his mouth and his tail begins to sway and curl again above the floor. Bits of shell and horn tied there shiver and clack like a string of teeth against the marble. “If there is to be war, I would think this place soon to be rediscovered. It has a way of bringing out religion.” But until then, perhaps it will be his.
He follows Metaphor with his gaze, dipping his head in return, and now his smile is something other than a crack in ice.
It thaws and thaws until it is soft as snow, and when Metaphor is only another red leaf on an autumn path full of them Amaroq turns back into the shadows of the temple.
