Ouroboros Spine To all things housed in her silence

his body did not shift beneath her touch, but his eyes closed—briefly—at the word from us both. the weight of those words settled deep in his chest.

a moon’s time, he confirmed, voice like low thunder. we will go.

he looked out toward the treeline, where the air smelled of pine and memory. moonglow, moontide, the lake—they would live only in story now. he would carry them in his bones.

build the altar, he said, after a pause. they will need it.

they, not he. but the way he said it held the echo of both.

he shifted then, only slightly, enough to glance toward her. your camp will be welcome.

another breath passed.

i will bring those who remember the old ways. and those who are learning.
then, after a beat—so quiet it nearly wasn’t said at all:

thank you, kukutux.