Ankyra Sound o green world, don't desert me now

stop calling grumpus old it makin' me sad

he was in the water as she approached, his ragged fur swirling in the cold liquid's embrace. she knew the reason he sought the hyperborean touch of the sea, but she dared not give that thought life by speaking of it. it was an untenable thought to the siren queen.

when he spoke caiaphas drew her eyes along his wearied muzzle. he posed a question to her and she considered the answer with a solemn weight that was unusual for her. she had never been happy and found the word incompatible: she had been so consumed by finding the luschyon brood, so consumed by reclamation of the sound -- that she hardly had spent much time at all thinking of such philosophical matters as her (and kierkegaard's) quality of life.

she sucked her breath as she pulled into the water alongside him. it chilled her spine and her bones rattled. "i am." her voice was free from dishonest inflection: with kierkegaard she had always been her true self, raw and transparent. he would have seen through any guise so she had never bothered to attempt misleading him. she leveled her sharp muzzle to him and spoke: "but you are not." it was a comment free from judgment or accusation -- simply an observation by an astute comrade. he had always been the wayfarer -- he wore such rough-shod clothes plainly. caiaphas wondered (though in a strangely sad way, she already knew) how kierkegaard felt for that chapter of his life to be irrevocably closed forever.