They were of a kind, then the histories writ large in tattooed tracery the tales a tracking of old wounds but something glowed hard in their eyes—those flame-gnawed arches, that vanishing span, they are their own past each in turn destined to fall in line on the quiet wayside beside the river they refuse to name . . . THE BRIDGEBURNERS (IV.I) TOC THE YOUNGER (B.1141)
