She moves so close to him that he thinks he will die.

He is thinking so many things. But he isn't sure if it's really him thinking them, anymore. He isn't sure of anything.

He isn't sure of his own name, so he doesn't even think of it. He just feels that Goddess' wind and he wants to destroy her. He wants to love her and rend her apart, he wants to be her slave and gigolo, her loyal priest.

He wants to be the one to turn the knife in her chest and hear her godly breath sputter into silence.

But he, whoever he is, is too much of a coward. And he is easily swayed. His companion, whoever she is, is done with him. She has wandered elsewhere, out of his cloak, further from the two faced one horned flying purple faithful eater. She has gone to stand beside her sister, Loretta, the bitch in red.

She can't abide that boy's foolishness, anymore.

The wolf appears. The fight begins. Things happen, time passes, the pair drift farther and farther apart.

That companion, that black dog, is running independent. She joins her sister, fights alongside her true family. She is a part of a pack. She will prove her place. She will be loyal. She will snap at the wolf God with the ferocity of a wild thing with poisonous jaws, she will cast terrors and shadows at the unwanted martyr Ampere, she will reach to press her nose to Loretta's scruff. She is in love with the fight. She feels she could live forever.

He, whoever he is. He is shaking. He feels impulsive. He wants to die because it would be easier, that way. Because anything would be easier than this. And he cannot bear to be himself, to carry the weight of disappointment. He loves Her, not companion but goddess, not mate or daughter but that first lost love.

Why not him?

His body changes into something, someone else. He becomes unrecognizable. He becomes it, Dovev, a steel gray champion of murder, its only living witness now blind and in love with its vessel.

Why didn't She, Goddess, love him?

It runs forward. It is pounding cracked hooves on earth and flying forward unbidden, completely out of control. It can't fight for either side. This isn't its fight. It just runs. It runs. It feels heartless and empty, but somewhere inside...

What had he done wrong? How had he not proven his devotion? And for what reason had he been rejected as the prodigal son? Had he not spent all his faith abroad, had he not returned humble and praying, ready to prostrate himself for the sake of his one dark lover?

It is frothing at the mouth. It is not thinking of anything, it is headed straight for his brother, Archibald the Dauntless, stumbling over the tremors in the earth but forcing itself to stay upright. It wants to kill, to bite the back and tear down the one who never stopped standing, never stopped crushing, killing, casting that shadow, damn shadow, shadow, shadow, could he ever be out of the shadow?

He loves her. He hates himself for loving her. He cannot fight against her. He wants her to die and he wants to be the one to kill her for some erotic pleasure. He wants her like a drug, for his moon to be the final push into the bloodstream.

She would be the greatest high, the most murderous achievement. And yet as if driven by some other force, as if possessed by the callousness of it, he just runs to fight his brother.

He just wants someone to die.

He wants some proof that his faith wasn't wasted.

He wants justification for all the wrong he's done to come now in his moment of weakness.

He wants someone to die.

He wouldn't mind if it was himself.

He hopes his daughter will lead a good life.

He hopes for a lot of things.

He is crying as he rears in disguise to strike his brother's back--he is little defective colt.

""