fa’liya listens without interruption. ghost-talker. it is not a novel idea—the clan had been without one for some time, though she debated whether she was worthy of such a title. the role is not small, but it would eliminate the stress upon her body. she would not hunt, but her voice could shift the direction of the entire clan. it would be a position of comfort, if she could handle it.

fa’liya lowers her gaze again to the snow as they walk, lips parting in consideration. i do not know if the spirits would speak to me, she admits. she had not been given much time for faith, too busy coughing up blood to utter a prayer to ice-raven. there is embarrassment in the quick flick of her ears.

hunting is what she understands better—if only by concept. the image forms easily in her mind: not running beside them, not keeping pace, but shaping their fear. turning them. guiding their movement toward the waiting hunters. it is a different kind of strength, and yet—i would not refuse it, she adds finally, carefully. what must i do?

[no one can say these things. you must wait for the spirits to speak. cen's mind continued to stray toward an image of fa'liya lagging further and further behind until she disappeared from view. his sense of the Long March and lanzadoii demands upon a child clashed with his paternal concern. quickly the chieftain found that he was not able to reconcile the two, and this was its own struggle. but it seemed fa'liya would accept. go out among the caribou and speak to them. ask for their guidance. fast for two nights. a dream will come upon the third. it had been a long while since he had spoken with a ghost talker -- he pulled from memory any similar words and offered them to his daughter -- to a child who he hoped would take a permanent place in the band if hunting was beyond her strength. after that, you will come back to me. i will tell the others, and from that moment on, you will seek dreams and interpret them before the clan. vague. heavy. he had never made a child into this before and he was not sure how the spirits would welcome her. but this, was, he felt, fa'liya's chance to ascend into a position that benefited all of the sun wolves who might hear her voice.]

no one can say these things. you must wait for the spirits to speak. cen's mind continued to stray toward an image of fa'liya lagging further and further behind until she disappeared from view. his sense of the Long March and lanzadoii demands upon a child clashed with his paternal concern. quickly the chieftain found that he was not able to reconcile the two, and this was its own struggle.
but it seemed fa'liya would accept. go out among the caribou and speak to them. ask for their guidance. fast for two nights. a dream will come upon the third. it had been a long while since he had spoken with a ghost talker -- he pulled from memory any similar words and offered them to his daughter -- to a child who he hoped would take a permanent place in the band if hunting was beyond her strength.
after that, you will come back to me. i will tell the others, and from that moment on, you will seek dreams and interpret them before the clan. vague. heavy. he had never made a child into this before and he was not sure how the spirits would welcome her. but this, was, he felt, fa'liya's chance to ascend into a position that benefited all of the sun wolves who might hear her voice.

fa’liya absorbs his answer in silence. steps to follow—responsibilities, should the ice raven choose her. her father speaks, and she listens—her ears tilt back, uncertain, but she does not argue.

fast. two nights of hunger. her body, already hollowed by the march, tightens at the idea, but hunger is familiar. weakness is not new.

go out among the caribou. her gaze drifts back to the herd, tawny shapes shifting against the white. she wonders, briefly, what it would mean to speak to them and expect an answer.

the wind moves between them again, colder here, sharper. it catches in her throat and pulls a quiet wheeze from her chest. she turns her head slightly, swallowing it down, shoulders tightening until it passes.

after that, you will come back to me. her steps slow for half a beat before matching his again, though her breathing has grown quieter now—carefully measured, steadied now as she nods, obedient. there is comfort in that part, at least. something to return to, even in failure.  yes, father. thank you. fa’liya says.