Brother Bear Sitka's Funeral ~upd~ Today

The first tears came then. Not a flood, but a slow, bitter leak from the corners of his eyes. He wiped them away with the back of his hand, furious at himself for showing weakness.

“It should have been me,” Kenai whispered.

“His name will be spoken at every hunt,” she said. “His story will be told at every fire. And when the northern lights dance, look closely. You will see him running with the caribou, diving with the salmon, soaring where the wind takes him.”

Kenai finally looked up. The stone eagle seemed to shimmer. For just a heartbeat, he thought he saw Sitka’s face in the rock—not stern or warrior-like, but calm. Almost smiling.

The wind did not howl that morning. It simply stopped.

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