Ouroboros Spine chaguthil

Kigipigak did not know how long he lay there in the ulaq. He did not know if he slept or if he sat awake and in agony, waiting for the burning in his skin to stop. Kukutux had tended to him on the cliffside and then again once he was placed in this safe spot; she came and she went, and sometimes he was visited by others, though he did not know them.

The bleeding had been tended to. The wounds to his ribs now lay with poultices and dressing, the same with his haunch, and over everything a haze fell. Kigipigak knew pain well and sat uncomfortably with it; he trusted it would end eventually, this buzzing, this burning — while the deeper trauma had been the blow to his own pride.

His crying had stopped, at the very least. Something he could not bare to do before his caretakers. Kukutux was the rare exception and even then, Kigipigak felt wrong to let himself feel, and quake, and be a weak boy again. He was lost to the in-between nature of his own immaturity; he was no man, no matter the name he carried.

He could move some now. Still with pain, and not very far or very long, but the worn paths of Moonglow were best for practice.

Although he was in luck. Not needed to travel very far to find someone. Another had arrived to Moonglow. Tucked in an ulaq and tended to by the moonwoman as well. He wondered what this one's story was. Although as he sniffed at the base, he did not smell much over their natural scent and the addition of poultices.

Hello, He offered softly, sinking onto his belly some with a grunt.

Would you mind a visitor?

He knew how long and lonely his days had been when he laid healing.

helP i love him so much and have wanted to thread w/ him and you so badly aaaah dreams do come true

Kigipigak's fogged mind refused to process the initial greeting, but then the shadow which passed by the ulaq lingered and his eye was drawn to it. It was not a pale shape. A red one, no, darker—he thought maybe it was himself, for just a moment.

Would you mind a visitor? the stranger asked; he did not know this voice, those eyes - and truly would have refused him, as Kigipigak did not need to be gawked at by another man when so deeply hurt. Yet he knew the value of comrades too.

He carried the scent of Kukutux well. Kigipigak noticed the careful way he positioned himself, as if he hurt too.

Who are you? He managed to ask of the man, his voice strained from the ache in his ribs. In this way Kigipigak accepted the stranger's presence; he only hoped to steel himself against unwelcome tears during their stay.

;u; <3

It was better than an outright no.

Which meant he didn't budge, just answered what he had been asked. As a good visitor should.

Iḷitqusiq. He answered easily. The name now felt familiar upon his tongue. Having mumbled it under the watch of Kukutux, having introduced himself as it officially before this.

Kukutux brought me here. I've been on the mend as well. An olive branch between them, if the man would take it.

The name was striking. It surprised Kigipigak that someone would hold such a powerful name as this, yet look so utterly removed from the northlands; he regarded the visitor with a searching look that lasted maybe too long, but did not ask anything further about it. Names were sacred, at least to Kigipigak.

The boy's initial suspicion was correct as well. It appeared as though Iḷitqusiq was in far greater condition than his freshly ruined body and Kigipigak was immediately envious, then surprised at the dark and twisted jealousy that arose so whole within himself; he would mend in time, Kukutux would do her best, he reminded.

Kig... Kig, he struggled, having never before had a hard time with his precious name. It was a struggle to bring in a breath and then to expel the air in a way that was understandable; his own name twisted up his tongue, so he opted for the one Kukutux had used for him before: Kiggavik.

Kiggavik.

It was all he heard when the man could finally utter it.

It is fitting and he wondered if this man belonged to Moonglow before injury. Yet he did not recognize the scent as one of the ones beyond the ulaq.

A good name. He complimented warmly. Although he soon found himself at a lose. The man clearly struggled to even speak, conversation would not be good for him. He tried to not imagine the scorn of Kukutux should she come upon them undoing her work with simple speaking.

I could tell you a story, to pass the time, if you'd like.

A good name, offered the man.

Thereafter came quiet; Kigipigak knew he could not do much in his current state, and as much as he wished to speak and resort to his usual boisterousness, he did not have the energy for it. His throat was rough and still tasted of blood. The bruises and cuts along his ribs would take time to mend, leaving him weakened.

Iḷitqusiq offered to speak for him. To entertain with a story, much as a mother might with a cub. The comparison caused a momentary rage to spark in Kigipigak. He did not want to be infantilized beyond how he already felt, but... If it would give the man a reason to linger...

He nods, pivoting his ears towards Iḷitqusiq to show he was interested.

Truthfully, he did not have many stories of his own. At least not many that did not end in heartbreak or lackluster conclusions.

He did have a story that he had been told recently. One that stayed close to his heart, even after its telling. So he decided that would be best to share.

Have you heard of rain father and lightning mother? A slight tilt of his head to the question.

If not, he would plunge right into it. Trying to retell it as best as he had heard it originally. Hopefully it would fill enough time for Kiggavik to not feel so...stuck. Stuck in time. Stuck in the ulaq.

The story was not one he had heard before — he lightly shook his head when prompted to respond. It was enough to keep his mind a little busy, for which he was thankful.

Kigipigak's people were not the kind that followed any set religion, be it pagan or natural in its variety; they followed the will of their Issumatar which was often hard-hearted, bloody, and lacking in imagination.

If they told stories it was to impress a battle standard upon the wayward anneriwok, or to expound upon a past battle and in turn, impress their fellow warriors. At least, those were the limits fo Kigipigak's understanding when it came to such tales.

What Iḷitqusiq spoke of now was none of those things.

Kigipigak had never wondered where the sea had come from, he only knew to avoid being swept away by it. He did not know why the sky turned dark with rain, or drew deep, deep breaths before the light came. He wondered as he listened, if there were stories for the ice and the snow, or if they all had names and reasons for being.

The tale was long, and in the end Kigipigak did not know if he should break the resulting silence himself or let it sit between them.

He was content to let it sit for a few long moments.

For he found some stale comfort in it. Belly on the ground as his mending leg settled odd behind him. The story had been a distraction for himself as much as Kiggavik.

I will come tell you another sometime, if you would like.

He could not spill all of the stories of the world in one day.

It was Iḷitqusiq who would speak first, after a pregnant pause. A promise to tell more stories.

Kigipigak appreciated the effort the man was making to keep him entertained, and tried to smile; he nodded just enough to show he agreed — welcome to future tales — but he did not say anything.

He was too tired and the mending of his body took all the energy that Kigipigak had. As for his now fragile spirit, perhaps the stories that Iḷitqusiq would share in the coming days could help him begin to mend that, too.

I'll fade it here! :)