before the morning comes around

Aamu

A snowstorm blew inside a wolf's eyes
And the frozen tears covered all the mountainsides

He cannot see them, but he can hear them: the soft, ethereal voice falls like whispers in the night, yet some of their words bite like the lash of a whip. Edged in fire, quenched in cold water, hardened and sharp. He does not flinch, and does not believe they mean to rebuke him, but he wonders still who they are, to speak in such a hush and yet make him feel so chastised.

(He thinks they may be a little broken, and he worries privately that ascension will not be the salvation they seek, but the choice is not his to make.)

It somehow seems inappropriate to offer his condolences when they do not speak fondly of their dead kin. Aamu bows his head in silent agreement, carefully approaching the horse. Feels his way along its flank to where its rider sits, and with their help he soon sits behind them. And he is cold to the touch, like something dead, so different from their body. He can feel their heartbeat as he wraps his arms around them for stability.

"Ride for the underground," he says by her ear, once more the guide.

But then the time got by and the wolf died
And someday that wolf would be I