Nova Peak Niende Dag

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so many gods walked winsook this night, skorpa felt as though he could hardly move for brushing one divine shoulder or another. guests gathered, and he felt a constriction of mistrust. yet this night was one of peace, and it was not for him. they drew together in celebration of young life, and for skorpa, tonight too was edda for ayovi's life.

elk-smear to his cheeks lifted the man's spirits; his eyes danced when he looked at the glowing hale moonbow of regnvand's winding through the throng, to welcome, to greet.

nine day.

her rhythms were in his blood. he nodded and murmured if addressed, arms filled with one child or another.

and the ceremony: ayovi was a goddess in a feral garden, a picturesque illustration of wildling motherhood. blood for the children; red-stain for himself and for lorcan. in this primeval peace was something that should not be broken, no matter how skorpa loathed to stand beside the man who had threatened ayovi, to stand beside and celebrate him as a father.

his great paws filled the earth with vibrations he had never heard, and whose sound filled his head with glory.

a child's burbling wail. the names of winsook's children were given to the spirits, and if ayovi was transfixed, the bearsword close at hand felt the same to see her face suffused with such radiance.

he cradled each child as they fell to sleep against the silken furs of the red den; skorpa pulled his fragrant bearskin over their tiny warm bodies and in reluctance, stole back to the side of winsook's rainwater shieldmaiden.

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