sulukinak was dead, and a sapphique wolf named sobeille had come up with a brilliant, if macabre, idea to keep the deceased mother's pups alive. she and her minions had brought a lactating seal from the shores and had urged the young wolves to nurse,
which they did so, with alacrity. thus, the circle of life would continue. at least for the wolves.
panik knows none of this.
more than ten days post-birth, her eyes have yet to open, and her ears have just barely started to unfold; any kind of hearing she has is as if she's underwater (fitting, given her setting). even her sense of smell has yet to develop properly.
and yet, she lives.
why?
in nature, organisms exist in some kind of symbiosis. at best—at least in terms of a higher sense of morality—this is symbiosis, in which both creatures benefit. then there's arrangements that see one creature benefit, and the other not at all, or one suffers, and the other not at all.
but this? this is parasitism. the young wolf sisters suckle away at the seal while her own young go hungry, and once they stand fit to be weaned, sobeille and her pack will dispatch the cow for slaughter.
parasitism. panik is a disease.
again, panik knows nothing of this.
panik knows only the rubbery feel of her "mother"'s skin against her kneading paws, and the tug of the teat as she take it into her mouth to suckle. the taste of milk, so rich and fatty, giving her at least a fighting chance at life—one she would not otherwise have had.
panik knows there is one other beside her, a being of similar size, shape and perhaps smell. occasionally, they squabble for the same nipple. she is always first to back down; there's always room for more, anyway.
panik knows the feeling of a wolf's tongue against her downy pelt, giving her warmth, comfort. she assumes it's from "mother," and why should she not? the seal and her milk are more constant in her life than the sun and the stars in ours.
and if panik could know the fate of her life-giver, perhaps she would scream.
then again, perhaps not.
does a parasite mourn its host's demise? or does it simply wander away, intently seeking out the next source of sustenance, without a further thought for the wreckage it's left behind?
which they did so, with alacrity. thus, the circle of life would continue. at least for the wolves.
panik knows none of this.
more than ten days post-birth, her eyes have yet to open, and her ears have just barely started to unfold; any kind of hearing she has is as if she's underwater (fitting, given her setting). even her sense of smell has yet to develop properly.
and yet, she lives.
why?
in nature, organisms exist in some kind of symbiosis. at best—at least in terms of a higher sense of morality—this is symbiosis, in which both creatures benefit. then there's arrangements that see one creature benefit, and the other not at all, or one suffers, and the other not at all.
but this? this is parasitism. the young wolf sisters suckle away at the seal while her own young go hungry, and once they stand fit to be weaned, sobeille and her pack will dispatch the cow for slaughter.
parasitism. panik is a disease.
again, panik knows nothing of this.
panik knows only the rubbery feel of her "mother"'s skin against her kneading paws, and the tug of the teat as she take it into her mouth to suckle. the taste of milk, so rich and fatty, giving her at least a fighting chance at life—one she would not otherwise have had.
panik knows there is one other beside her, a being of similar size, shape and perhaps smell. occasionally, they squabble for the same nipple. she is always first to back down; there's always room for more, anyway.
panik knows the feeling of a wolf's tongue against her downy pelt, giving her warmth, comfort. she assumes it's from "mother," and why should she not? the seal and her milk are more constant in her life than the sun and the stars in ours.
and if panik could know the fate of her life-giver, perhaps she would scream.
then again, perhaps not.
does a parasite mourn its host's demise? or does it simply wander away, intently seeking out the next source of sustenance, without a further thought for the wreckage it's left behind?
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