Ouroboros Spine in the dark, we laugh together

For a long time, it had felt like everything was going wrong, and he had tried to fix it, little by little. It had hurt to be branded in so many negative ways, and frustrating to try and be a father to children scattered, and a husband before that to a woman who had come to loathe him; tumultuous, to be certain. Now as Kigipigak looked upon the tree and its shedding of its leaves, he felt nothing.

He knew there was love inside of himself for his children. He knew he loved his wife, even if she was no longer his, even if she no longer lived. He knew he could find respect for her family if he tried. He knew these things on an intellectual level, and yet the feelings he anticipated when he pictured Ariadne, or Kivaluk, or Tautukpik, Akmaaksi, the lost Nutuyikruk—he only felt cold. A nothingness seeping from him.

The tree could have been struck by lightning in that instant and Kigipigak would remain empty.

Instead there came a voice—a young man who, upon glance, looked closer to full-grown than either of his own living children. The look on his face was a scowl; he had the heavy brow of Aiolos, the eyes of Kukutux. To this he was indifferent, also. It was strange—the accusation in the boy's tone might have once riled Kigipigak and yet now, he felt only hollowness.

To see my son and daughter. To mourn together with them. He said.

Looking again to the firemother, he gave a sigh. To try and be together.