Turns out that the world of unconsciousness was just as vast as the world of the living. She had seen colors never before witnessed, and had close encounters with sounds both pleasant and distressing. She had become the exact opposite of oneness – she had been dispersal.

A mind, disintegrated.

That had persisted for only a few days following her failed hunt. In truth, she had wished for a few more days of this nothingness because once she awoke, the pain began. Her body screamed at her constantly that something was wrong – and it was more than apparent from the deep wounds on her face, a fever in her blood, and the disuse of her back legs.

Everything below her waist was numb. Everything above was on fire.

This lasted longer than Arigaaq would have liked. Never did the severity of it dull. She could entertain no guests, could eat no meat, and could think of nothing but her own suffering and failure.

Her tears refused to come, solely because they made her head throb harder and stung at her gashed cheek like so many bee stings.

After the fever receded and the infection in her cheek waned, came the harrowing realization that she might never walk again. At this point, Ari had also become aware that she was not the only child to leave the Cen’s event grievously wounded – one being her own sister – and then the Dewdrop did weep, and greatly, for the pain of her own mother and those she could not walk towards to comfort,

for all the things she would not see, because she could not move herself towards them.

Then, the ultimate happiness of one morning twitching a toe!

It was such a departure from her despair that she became obsessed with strengthening this movement, which then would unlock a mind-body connection with an adjoining spot. In this way her frozen body thawed, and her entire mien warmed. The young girl still must undertake the task of mending the heavy bones of her pelvis, but at least there was something productive to focus on in the subtle movements of her toes, feet and ankles.

That was where Ari was these days – in the bed she that had been made for her underneath a sycamore tree, not too far away from mama or her siblings, watching the leaves turn orange, then brown, and then fall at her (mostly) inert feet. At times, she would awake veritably covered in a blanket of these leaves, which too made her joyous. She would laugh and shake them from her, but the pain of jostling meant that she must wait for others to really clear them.

That was her life now.

Waiting, always waiting – waiting for Saatsine to march on for the winter, and leave her brokenness behind. Waiting to see if she could ever walk, or sing without hurting. Waiting to understand exactly what her failure meant to her family...

and quite certain she would not like the inevitable truth of it.

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