The horses that plunge through the waterways between the cities of heaven and the citadels of hell are wild of eye and white of mane.  No one rides them.  In times past they have trampled armies and thundered down brave fortresses, and every hoofmark fills with dead water.  They leave behind them a trail of sodden smoke and equations tearing themselves into constituent constants and shadows that chatter in the language of untimely gifts.

A single angel accompanies them.  She wears armor woven haphazardly from ligaments of dreary bark, gears scrapped from clanking engines, and leather strips from the backs of broken traitors.  The angel wears no veil or helm, but there is a terrible mark on her brow where the greatest of the horses struck her with her hoof.

On the high day of summer, when the sun strikes chords from the cities of heaven and even the citadels of hell are luminous with the anticipation of sinfire and soul’s pyre, the angel leads the horses to heaven and hell in turn.  She collects a coin of silver from heaven and a coin of steel from hell so that the horses will not pillage the great cities, the greedy citadels.  Even the wardens of heaven and the warriors of hell know to fear the horses.

And on the low day of winter, when the stars gather closely around the cities of heaven and the citadels of hell are bright with the knowledge of famine, the angels lead the horses to heaven and hell again.  This time, when they pay her in silver and steel, it is to ensure the horses will never leave them.  For the wardens of heaven and the warriors of hell recognize that, terrible as the horses are, they too are essential to the order of the world.

for YKL