Stavanger Bay the stars feel your sorrow and aching heart

There isn’t enough sleep in the world that will roll Qilaq out of her slumber longer than a few minutes. Having resorted back to being barely more than a newborn, she finds herself eating and sleeping and barely room for anything else. She’s hardly given her younger siblings the time of day—there had been three when she left, four before she killed one—and she doesn’t even recognize them. They are weird little things with stumpy legs and fur and Qilaq is far more afraid of them than anything, keeping herself tucked somewhere near the back of the den she feels entirely unfamiliar in.

Night has fallen by the time Qilaq’s eyes flutter open again and she blinks back against the darkness. It makes it difficult to orient her mind and she unsteadily picks herself up and works her way out of the den, careful where she puts her feet. The squeak cries in her head with each step and doesn’t clear until she’s out in the open where the winter bites through her coat. Her ears droop against her head and she swings her head back to the entrance, tempted to tuck herself back in the warmth—what the five of them can share—but she refocuses and takes a few steps out into the snow. It’s only a matter of minutes before her toes become numb but it doesn’t slow her down.