Ouroboros Spine uluktuk ⧝

Sialuk answered her mother's wish, sweeping herself up near the matriarch with pride. Anaa's stories were some of her favorite ways to pass the time, and the raindrop had always found they had many layers to them. Sometimes, it was not until she had heard a story for the seventh or eighth time that she uncovered its most hidden undercurrents.

She listened with rapt attention to each word, her ears latching onto each syllable, each sentence, with claws that could have belonged to a crow. It was a story of men and women, as many of her mother's stories were. Those stories were some of her favorites, weaving together two lives, tearing them apart, sometimes mending them back again.

When her mother rolled her eyes, Sialuk laughed lightly. When she spoke of the hunter refusing to settle, Sialuk tsk'd at him. When seeking owl was presumed dead, Sialuk frowned. And when he opened his eyes to see goose down woman, Sialuk felt a flutter in her chest. But it was the last part, when the two could not be together, that Sialuk found her heart grow weary for the pair.

In this tale—as all of her mother's tales—was a lesson to be learned. Sialuk knew the first layer, but it would take many more times before she could uncover the many more beneath it.

It was a lovely story, mother, she said, touching her cheek to Kukutux's.