Ouroboros Spine taimmalikii

Asivaq had learned well from her own anaa on how to tend to pelts, and the fox was still in good form, only bloodied—but she motioned to the earth beside herself, and Kigipigak knew she had misunderstood the question, and that she was referring to something else. He cast the fox a glance as he passed it, and moved to sit beside her. He regarded his wife in much the same way as the night before, beneath the lights. There was caution, there was uncertainty, and there was an attachment; of these things only two he could feel reciprocated, especially as she began to explain.

What came next was something Kigipigak had been afraid of, and deeply so; but he was Tartok, and he knew that it was the woman's choice who she lay with and who she kept as husband. The caution within Asivaq's explanation was curious—did she think he would rebel against the notion? It was not uncommon for a Tartok woman to choose a different husband each season; if he was no longer fit to be so, in her eyes, then that was the way it would go.

Did it hurt to listen to this girl speak? Yes. Did Kigipigak straighten his spine and begin to dissociate the longer Asivaq went on? A little bit. Her mention of religion was timed with a quick breath, and maybe it would sound as if he were dismissing the concept with a sigh, but it would not be on purpose. He was silent, and she then went on to apologize.

Is this your voice, or your anaa? He countered first, and before Asivaq could answer that he took another breath. As skilled as Kigipigak was in swallowing his hurt and as strong as he felt he was, the man did feel the great pain of this betrayal; that is what it felt like—to have tried so hard and then to be cast aside, not for any decision by the woman he loved, but by the convincing of the old woman Kukutux, for surely she had a hand in this.

He had known. It was impossible not to see how Asivaq had changed when their village fell, or how she blossomed again when returned to the moon village. You are right that we are different, but I do not see that as a bad thing. I understand that the ways of your village are important to you— the blood on her cheeks, her anger from the previous night, the way she had stormed off instead of speaking with him, all strong within his memory now; —but I never stopped you from your ways. You chose to go the Tartok way, and I was glad while it lasted. Now you sing your songs and you spend time with your family, and I do not stop you. Tell me wife, why is your mother's way the only way?

When next a man comes, if his way is again different, will you change your name and shed your songs again? Will you mold yourself to their vision and then leave them, too? Was this the magic of the moonfolk, to lure men long enough to bare their sons and daughters, and to chase them off again? His ire rose, but Kigipigak kept it in check.