there would be a thousand moments in which kukutux would look back upon this day, in which she would remind herself again and anew of how samani's silent face had rested amid the pool of blood and children searching for her warmth.

how the jadeite eyes had seen nothing in the end

it was a sight for no wolf, for no mother, for none breathing.

two daughters had brought forth children; kukutux kept to the slopes outside moonglow for the last several weeks, the final bundle of teas and meat and gifts close to grasp up and to carry. she waited for the song of birth, of resplendent love and joy.

but what broke that day was a feverish shriek of terror and loss, rodyn as she had never heard him before. 

and she knew.

what mother does not know?

what woman does not know?

but kukutux did not wish to understand this; she turned snowy face toward the moontide village and sped as quickly as sedna wished for her to fly. the borders were not to keep her out, and so she went inside, with each step weakening in fear.

and —

it was no delighted smile that greeted the grandmother; thrice; it was sorrow, salt upon the wind; she tasted it, she threw aside her prepared things and ran faster, until she arrived windblown and stark-eyed at the den.

daughter's-blood.

yes.

her own, spilled.

yes;

samani gazed at nothing, she saw nothing; and moonwoman's own eyes blurred with tears. another daughter, here, returned, and though she could not speak, she was grateful that samani had not gone to sedna without the presence of another sister beside her.

acceptance did not come at once. rodyn shook with sobs, gathered around the children, and kukutux slowly wound samani into her trembling arms and looked down at the serene, quiet face of the young woman, who had been child, who had been borne of her flesh and nourished by her body.

her cries were tiny and birdlike, wretched sounds wrenching themselves to rasp in glass along her throat and stifle in sobs that kukutux could not allow to escape.

"sea girl. wolf who walks to the waves. go there now. sedna is waiting," moonwoman murmured in low voice to the listening shade of her daughter. "your family will provide for your children. they will know your face."

but she did not speak the name, though tears poured so fiercely that she could hardly see that beloved, still face.

"rodyn," kukutux said, laying the noiseless form back where she had fallen, her arms aching with harsh rejection of the notion. in response to the need of her grandchildren, the mother's-body did as it was bid, and brought forth some semblance of milk. but it would not be enough.

"ariadne." her hollow eyes looked now for the girl whose return she could not even celebrate. "we must take them to moonspear. sialuk has milk." kukutux could not fathom that the village-daughter would reject the sons of her sister. 

each word an act of effort. each movement of weighed limbs as if she were swimming in the thick blackness of a dreamscape river.

it was not her time to shatter.

"rodyn," more gently, an urge as she reached to touch him, to look through his embrace for the little ones samani had borne. "take your children to the mountain."

yes; an order; bereaved mother and moonwoman, standing firm as her daughter's blood cooled in moontide. 

"i will stay with her."

nine nights. nine songs.