Ouroboros Spine sleet

Understanding settled between them, and the sheer commonality of their shared suffering seemed to tear at moonwoman's the mystic veneer. Her age became apparent in the softening of her eyes. Mortality edged her winter white, and he knew: even her years had an end.

Sedna, so moonwoman spoke, was their godess. The concept wasn't foreign to Adrian, but wasn't one he had taken much time to dwell on before. He had never been known as a thoughtful son, just reckless, and though he reckoned there must be something or someone somewhere out there in charge of all this, they had always felt untouchable. 

Not the way moonwoman spoke of Sedna. Like a friend. Like a mother.

It was hard to miss the way their belief seemed to knit the very fabric of their grief into something more beautiful than even the red flowers his village had laid on father's grave. Hope was something confined to the present; hope beyond was something new entirely.

It must be good to have ways worth remembering, he remarked, quite sure he couldn't say the same of his own. Thank you. For speaking.

The two women had been more than gracious to him, in opening their home and sharing their beliefs, and the birdsong settled in a peace he had not felt since he'd been a pudgy little pup rolling in the nursery, with nothing but sleep to worry about.

I suppose there must be many more ways to share, he began, more than just a visit can tell.

Decisive, in what he suggested.