. . .

A concept pushes itself into Vaenwode’s mind. He starts to see something, he starts to think something, it is billowing in his mind like wind-tossed clouds and unfolding itself like a flower. He tries to articulate it but it is as if the mouth of his mind is full of cotton; he cannot find a word for it, a name, he does not even know if he means to argue with or surrender to the wolf.

The distinction becomes inessential.

The wolf lowers its chained mouth, delicately maneuvers it, and bites off Vaenwode’s head. It swallows it; and afterwards, bit by bit, the rest.

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