Moonspear alianiilik ≡

how could she tell him of her frozen blood high upon the mountain? the words far too vague that she had spoken, the way that she had broken first from arcturus, then the greystone man whose name she must never say again. if ever there was a vengeful spirit, it would be him. and so he must not be called down, called close. kukutux could not say what might befall moonspear, only that from then on she would believe every storm, every flood, every breath of frost to be the foreboding to whatever he might bring if he heard his name spoken.

he had died in pain and in fear, she believed; the duck knew, in the marrow of her, that she could never share the truth of the light draining from his pupils with any other. it was an image she must forever carry, and it singed in her mind even now, the trickle of life ebbing from his tormented body. 

"it was his wounds. he had many scars, beneath. he —" a swallow. "he did not know how to live without violence." and to it he had returned in the end. kukutux closed her eyes, wanting nothing more than to fade into the nothingness of an exhausted sleep and wake with jarilo near her. 

she had done what she could, had done what she must. for a fierce thrumming moment kukutux felt a shard of pure gratitude for her husband spring through her weary veins. he had always sought to accept her ways even if he did not understand them. it was more than she would have asked a mate taken from the clans of this land. "i am home now."

and he walked the dancing lights.