Blackfoot Forest i. please be gentle,

kukutux.

aiwë had to refrain from closing her eyes and sagging in on herself with the sudden pain that splintered through her. she stiffened against it, gaze dropping from sandulf's as the pale duck appeared in her mind, hazily and only for a moment. 

she had not forgotten. the spirit-speaker was one of the blurry faces pulling her home.

"aya," she rasped at last, clearing her throat. "kukutux is sistraa."

his next question drew her dimly back to the briefly misplaced task at hand. the dove gave a small shake of her head. 

"laiquë," she gestured to the daffodils. "laiquë," she gestured to the grass, to the trees. 

"lailë-malina," the four-year corrected kindly, pointing again to the flowers. "yellow laughter."

"not help grow, keep alive when too wet." something thrummed to life warmly in her chest. it had been too long since she'd practiced her craft. "too much water bad. moss soak. help plant stand."

she eyed him wonderingly. tradition called that he return her information by answering her own questions. "sandulf know kukutux? how?"