Ciever

WHISPERED, NEVER CONFIRMED

They tell it two ways, and I've stopped correcting either of them. In one telling, I am patient, gentle even — a man who counts what's his at the end of a long red road and calls it love, the way you'd tend something small and trusting. In the other, I stand at the front of a line of men the color of old wounds, and what I call tending, everyone else calls something closer to slaughter. I find I don't mind which story survives me. Both of them get the color right.

You lose very few of a flock to the wolf, you know. Most of them wander off on their own, toward something that looks warm from far away. I've simply gotten very good at being the warm thing they wander toward.

People ask who I answer to. I always give the same answer, and I always watch their face when I do, because the answer changes depending on how badly they need it to be a lie: no one. Not anymore. Not for longer than you'd believe.

You've heard the name before this, haven't you. Somewhere in a story someone was afraid to finish telling. That's alright. Fear is just recognition that hasn't found its footing yet.

Every flock needs a keeper. Every line of men needs a reason. I have simply never seen much difference between the two.