Swiftcurrent Creek made your mark on me, a golden tattoo

She challenged him—but he did not refrain from what truly pressed him—“What if I don’t, and our children hate me? What then?”

What about us?

Ibis, gone. Silvertongue, gone. All of his children, run away.

What then, when Eshe, too went?

He leaned against the entry wall of their den—feeling heavy yet weightless all at once. His eyes studied her a moment, and feeling that need once more to press against her—to soothe her, he instead slunk outside—the cold winter air a harsh slap to his face and yet he welcomed it greedily.