The descent takes a century. The wind becomes his prayer. He sheds his eagle form like a husk—feathers to starlight, beak to breath, talons to open hands. When he lands between Kenai and the edge, he is not a bird. He is a man made of moonlight and frost.
"You taught me to hunt," Sitka says. "Now let me teach you to forgive."
He watches for days. Or perhaps it is years. Time in the spirit realm smells like cedar smoke and tastes like melted snow.
"Sitka?"
Sitka screams into the aurora: I am here. I am always here.