Qeya River arjuni-akt-i

Kigipigak was breathing hard by the time the caribou lay at rest upon the bank. He was dripping and cold, but put aside the discomfort of those things to focus on the work. That was when Lane spoke up — engaging in a walk down memory lane that distracted Kigipigak for a moment.

He had tried not to think about the plateau. Those thoughts always brought to mind Sakhmet, and then loss, and all of that was too frustrating to think about. It was something he couldn't change.

—I'm glad our paths have crossed again.

The man's expression was sombre, and the feeling resonated within his copper gaze while he smiled to her and said, I am glad also. But before he got in to any discussion, he set his sights upon the pale corpse.

Like the caribou he had brought down with the stray hunter (Tuuluuwaq) days ago, Kigipigak got to work stripping the finer cuts of meat from the belly, and disarticulating the limbs. It was much easier with this pale thing by virtue of his illness: it was underweight and it skin sagged off of it, or tucked in to neat rows along the ribs. It was tedious only for Kigipigak's lack of skill, and the desire to keep the skin intact for Kukutux to work with.

Working helped him to clear his mind. Kigipigak knew it was pointless to pine after someone who he likely wouldn't see again. It hurt to confront this truth, but he had to do it. He'd slowly been accepting this of Sakhmet for weeks now. It was all Kigipigak could do: mourn what was missing, and move on.