Relativity // Age
"Age does not protect you from love, but love to some extent protects you from age."
- Jeanne Moreau
Nunavut fiddles with the fluff on her hood as she rounds the small wooden house by the water, its paint rusty red and flaking, bits rolling around by its base, caught by the sea breeze. The wind is biting, full of salt and bits of dusty snow, but her coat is a thick shield of pelt and she is used to colder weather. Her eyes creep around the edge of the building, glancing over the stretch of rock wall and waves that smash against it, and her body follows, shy and unused to the attention she seems to grab by this harbour village. Two men stand nearby talking, one with overalls and boots up to his knees that remind her of her own new purple galoshes, which she looks down at and wiggles fondly before returning to her mission of walking by the men undetected. She had already been met by several tall, burly fisherman, a younger, thinner boy collecting lobster traps, and a frail-looking old lady, all of whom had smiled gently (albeit sometimes frighteningly, in the case of the gruff fishermen and their wiry beards) and offered her a kind word or cup of tea. Nunavut's older sister, Northwest, had always told her to be wary of adults who proposed gifts to her for no obvious reason, but her best friend Newfoundland had contrarily laughed once that his cove people were just very kind like that, and she had no need to worry.
Said boy is sitting at the water's edge, she finds, fishing pole held taught between his knees and sight focused on the horizon and its early foggy sun. His hands look particularly small in the giant, faded orange jacket that swallows the rest of his body, zipper open and arms wrinkled and bulging from so much readjustment. His pale face and short blond hair are barely visible under a grey toque, although Nunavut can hear him humming something lively, the sound whooshing towards her with the gusts of ocean air. She decides to hold off on calling to him -- because she does very much like the tune -- and instead takes her time skipping over to him, pausing when his song does and stepping sideways when the notes change. It turns into more so a game when she reaches the flat rocks of the harbour wall, and she jumps from one to the other, telling herself the space between is a burning pit of magma and she can't step on it, even a little. When she finally makes it to his side, her rubber boots pacing up and down as she swings her torso left and right, the boy turns to show her his beaming smile, which has surely been there for a while already, and laughs, "Nonny!"
Grinning and waving shyly from her close position she makes to sit down, but the motion suddenly persuades Newfoundland to mumble a loud, "Nah--wai'judsda--han'gohn--" and shuffle out of his heavy orange jacket, which he throws on the flat rock beside himself and then pats to offer to her. She pads onto it on her hands and knees, determined not to dirty the inside with her shoes, then readjusts herself so she can swing her legs back and forth over the small cliff. Newfoundland is smiling at her, his attention on his fishing rod gone, and she fidgets with the fur on the end of her coat awkwardly.
"Newfundle," she says suddenly, her eyes locked on his arm, "You got goosebumps." He makes a strange noise, rubs his arm briskly, and she continues, "I'm sittin' on your coat. Aren't'cha cold?"
Newfoundland chuckles, his voice cracking slightly, and waves his hands dismissively.
"No, s'foin--agh!" the words die quickly as he reaches to catch the falling fishing rod, it having slipped from between his legs and aiming to plummet into the icy water below them. Scrambling to reassert a lock on the stick, he finishes, "Newf'nland'rs're made'd'deal wid th'cold sea air."
Nunavut giggles at her friend's accent; it sounds thicker than usual, and she has to pause to figure out what he's said. They sit in silence as his attention is again brought to the line, contented smile still pasted on his face. Nunavut folds the arms of the coat beneath her over her legs, burying her hands in the wrong side of the sleeves and flipping them around.
"Guess what?" she asks, and she can feel Newfoundland glancing at her, "I'mma be twelve soon." The concept makes her stomach flutter, and she smiles, flapping the arms of Newfoundland's coat appreciatively.
"Good'onya," the boy beside her replies, pulling the fishing rod towards himself and then letting it loose again, "Y'gonna hav'n'ether pardy ad Nordwest's?"
"Mmm," she hums, thinking, "Nah, I wanna have a party at my house! 'Cause I'm a lot bigger now, and I ho... ho... had nations at my house for the G7 thingie, and...! And... and..." her words fade and her forehead scrunches up, suddenly confused, for she can't remember there ever being such an occasion; "Newfundle, when's your birthday?"
The province beside her seems to stop breathing for a moment, then lifts the fishing rod, having pulled the line in completely. He props it up on his hip and asks, "You wan’a’dry?" and Nunavut is torn for a moment, bothered by his not answering her question and yet immensely curious about the way the fishing rod works. The fishing habits of her people generally involve nets or long waits at holes in the ice, and though she has watched Newfoundland fishing before and understands the basics of it, she has never tried it for herself. She grins, nods, takes hold of the rod and the boy helps her position it just right; her hands tightly cling about the end and her knees wrap tightly to support the weight that was clearly not made for a child’s grip. Newfoundland shows her how to cast it, and they watch the line drift out through the wind and onto the suft. He backs his directing hands away slowly, as if expecting the rod to shatter like a house of cards, and then relaxes (although he still leans on his hands, ready, his eyes trained on the line). Nunavut makes an effort to look just as concentrated, squinting down at the water.
"…ah’ll be ‘boud five ‘undred’n fhardeen dis year." She looks up, caught off guard by the tone of his voice. Her companion’s eyes are trained on the waves, lit by the orange of the morning sun finally breaking its fog coat, and watery, beaten by salt air. He has gone still, his body stiff, and seems to be struggling to speak, the small Adam’s apple of his throat bobbing up and down as he swallows repetitively. Nunavut remains unmoving, thinking. Five hundred seemed like a very, very long time. And she was almost twelve, which was only a very, very small bit of her friend’s life. Before she was ever born, or in fact even an idea, Newfoundland had been around. He had been just a baby five hundred years ago. The boy who sits beside her looks like a child now, but her brothers and sisters all tell of him being a young man, tall and brave and old like them. She stares as her friend looks up at her, quickly, his eyes wide and worried, then snaps back to look at the sea, his mouth opening and closing like the fish he catches, and wonders how he could have ever been that way, old and tall and not like the Newfoundland she knows now.
"You were twelve before, right, Newfundle?" she breeches finally, tilting the fishing rod towards herself. The wind whips suddenly and pushes the tool back towards the water, and she scrambles to reassure her grip on it, but Newfoundland’s hand, only slightly bigger than hers, has already caught the rod.
"Yeah," he says, just loud enough to hear over the waves, "Ah was dwelve once… when Ah w’s dwelve, Ah was jus’ a’babe, nod as grown’p’r preddy’s you are." His gaze is on the line, watching it wave in the breeze, and his cheeks are flushed. He is still a moment, breathing slowly, chewing on his lower lip, then he sits up, grabbing hold of his pant legs, and starts speaking towards the horizon, his voice becoming louder and shaking, like Nunavut has known hers to do when she’s telling Northwest something she’s done wrong.
"Ah was jus’ liddle, ‘n Ah di’n ‘ave Lab yed, ‘n Ah was preddy much h’lone ‘cepd fer when France’r Narway’d come d’fish. When Ah w’s a’hundred’n dwelve, people starded livin’ on m’land, ‘n starded namin’ tings ‘n dere w’s lodsa fishin’ ‘n d’cod were so plen’yful… ‘n t’hosers fr’m ‘cross d’sea argued ‘n faugh’ o’er th’m… ‘n Ah used d’have m’own nadives, bud th’ b’yes fr’m ‘cross d’pond kil-hurdded’m widd’er diseases. An when Ah w’s‘boud du’hundred’n dwelve, No’a w’s born, ‘n Caber w’s ‘er own t’ing, ‘n Bruns’wi’d w’s jus’ a babe’n she w’s the sweedis’ ting, bud Ah’din’ see mahch’a dem e’en’ tho’ de’re roid nearby. Ah liked havin’ No’a ‘round ‘cause som’mimes ‘e’d come visid, ‘n e’en tho’ he w’s a’bid annoyin’ he w’s comp’ny, ‘n…" he pauses for just a moment to take a shaky breath, then continues speedily, "When Ah w’s t’ree’undred ‘n dwelve, K’bec ‘n Ahn’dario were jus’ kids, ‘n dere w’s so mhach fighd’n goin’ on all o’er d’place, bud Ah w’s s’ill alone ‘n quied ‘n Ah didn’ dalk’d anyone mhach, ‘n…"
Suddenly Newfoundland stops, closing his mouth with a quiet snap, and takes off his toque to run his fingers through his hair. He glances at Nunavut, at the rocks, and then back to Nunavut.
"Sarry aboud… sarry, Nonny. ‘M geddin’ carried away."
Nunavut has all but lost her attention on the fishing line, having been facinated with how Newfoundland’s face had scrunched and twisted as he spoke, how his eyes had shot up and down and fogged over. She begins to speak, to ask him to continue, but the rod in her hands suddenly jerks forward, and all her attention turns to it. The line is stretching taught down to the water. Newfoundland yelps and grabs the rod, his hands holding tight over hers, and he explains to her what to do to bring in the line, so quickly she can hardy understand what he’s saying. But it’s no problem, for the boy directs her more so with his movements, gesturing with a free hand how to turn the handle and bring the line in, how to tug and pull the rod to keep the fish on the line. Nunavut is laughing by the time they finally free the aquatic animal from the waves, writhing and flicking water on her face. Newfoundland expertly unlatches it from the hook, one thumb holding it aloft by the jaw, and he turns to smile at her, saying, "Beaudy, inn’y?"
She nods, grinning, and asks excitedly, "Can we eat him?" But at this Newfoundland’s expression fades, and he shakes his head. He takes the back of the fish in his free hand and turns it sideways in front of her.
"See d’line along’is side dere?" Nunavut nods, her eyes trailing the white line that runs from the creature’s gills to his tail. "He’s a cod. De’re endanger’d, ‘n we can’ fish’m anymhar." With that he nudges the fish towards her hands, and Nunavut takes it, tosses it back into the water, frowning.
"…Newfundle," she says then, her forehead furrowed, "I thought you liked cod a lot. How come you can’t fi-"
"’Cause e’eryone likes cod a’lod, Nonny," he inturrupts, sighing, "Ah’liddle avder Ah w’s five ‘undred, m’cod all dissappeared. Too much fishin’. M’cod w’s all Ah’ad. You were bharn only seven years a’der Ah turn’d…" he waved a hand, gesturing at his childlike body, "…like dis."
Both are silent, Nunavut playing with the coat below her once again and Newfoundland staring at his folded hands. Nunavut struggles with the empty air, trying to speak and then failing when the words reach her lips. A gull flies over their head, cawing, the sound raw and pained, and she watches it fight the gusts of wind that shoot around it like invisible waves. The battling bird inspires her, and before realizing she’s speaking, she asks, "Was it hard, Newfie?"
Newfoundland is suddenly chuckling, his head still tilted towards his crossed fingers but eyes pinched together, and giggles, "Nod really - ad kid heighd’cha don’ hid yer head’on dharframes s’much." She stares at him, confused, as the boy loses himself in his own wit, leaning forward with his gentle laughter. Eventually he wipes a hand over his face, his laughter dying down to the occasional hiccupy sound, and finishes more solemnly, "Nah, s’mosdly jus’ lonely."
"Lonely?" He finally looks at her, tapping his hands on the rock between his knees.
"Mm," he hums, his voice soft, "Like if you didn’ve Nord’wes’er Yukon’er… me. I-if y’were all by yerself ‘n nod even Madd’d be ‘round d’dalk do’er play wid ‘n no one’d say hi’d’yeh er anythin’. Jus’ lonely."
Nunavut sits still, staring at Newfoundland’s eyes, for the first time today unwavering, the brightest blue and silver, and whimpers, kneading a jacket sleeve between her fingers. The idea of being all alone, of being by herself in her snowy home with no one to help her learn to walk or speak when she was a baby, help her protect her people and tie the ribbons on her kamiks and play outside with when the weather was nice and tell her to be careful of strangers and nice to her brothers and to use her indoor voice in the house and-
"Newfundle!" she exclaims, tears pricking at her eyes, "That’s really sad!"
Newfoundland, startled, shuffles closer to her, his hands held up, and worries, "Oi, oi, oi, don’ cry, don’ cry, Nonny, ‘m sarry, Nonny, oi, s’alride-" She flails her arms helplessly, then twists and flings them around Newfoundland’s neck, burying her face in his shoulder. He chokes on his words a moment, saying, "S-s’alride, Nonny, s’nod gonna habben d’you, yer foine," but Nunavut starts shouting, her voice muffled in his shirt.
"Not o-okay, Newfundle! It's not fair! I don't like it! I do-on't want you to be lonely! 'M'ma stay will you all the time, okay? 'Cause then you wo-on't be lonely!"
Newfoundland sighs over her continued panicked rant and pulls her away, two hands on her shoulders and eyes coaxing her to look up at him; "Yer such'a swee'dard, Nonny," he chuckes gently, "Yer'a sweed'ard, but s'alride, a'kay? Thad was a lon'dime a'go, 'n Ah've god lod'sa brodders'n sis'ders now, 'n Ah've god'chu for a bes' friend, 'n 'M not lonely anymhar." Nunavut rubs her nose along her sleeve and frowns. "So," Newfoundland continues, smiling at her, "Wha'c'n'ah ged'cha for yer birt'day?"
Nunavut frowns at him, her bottom lip sticking out, eyebrows scrunched together, resiliant. Her nose is running and she sniffs, loudly, staring at the rocks by her knees. "I wa-ant," she begins, and then crosses her arms, "I want you to have your birthday with me, Newfu-undle." He stares, tilting his head ever so slightly to the side, just like his brother Labrador does, and Nunavut fights the urge to giggle. He looks genuinely concerned.
"Nonny," he starts, "Ah’m nod gonna intrude on yer birt’da-"
"I want you to! I want you to have your birthday with me ‘cause you haven’t had one since before I was born and that’s not good, Newfundle!" Her voice squeaks on his name and she whacks him with his coat sleeve. A long silence follows, a stare-off, Nunavut’s face creased in determination and Newfoundland’s bewildered. Unexpectedly, Newfoundland bursts out laughing, covering his eyes with his palms and letting himself fall backward, choking, "Awride, Nonny, awride!" She doesn’t grin until he admits, "Ah’ll have m’birt’day wid’chu, awride? If tha’s whad’chu want, ah’ll do it, a’kay?" Nunavut laughs victoriously and tries her best to hug him.
(No one can understand why Newfoundland’s eyes tear up when two cakes are presented on Nunavut’s twelfth birthday, one with twelve candles and the other a near raging inferno. No one understands why he laughs and kisses Nunavut bravely on the cheek. His brothers mock him and sisters coo and he takes it all in stride, but once the older provinces go off to drink and the younger fall into a deep sleep, he sits awake, giggling and crying and thanking every deity he knows for letting him exist long enough to meet the little territory who remembered him.)
"Age does not protect you from love, but love to some extent protects you from age."
- Jeanne Moreau
Nunavut fiddles with the fluff on her hood as she rounds the small wooden house by the water, its paint rusty red and flaking, bits rolling around by its base, caught by the sea breeze. The wind is biting, full of salt and bits of dusty snow, but her coat is a thick shield of pelt and she is used to colder weather. Her eyes creep around the edge of the building, glancing over the stretch of rock wall and waves that smash against it, and her body follows, shy and unused to the attention she seems to grab by this harbour village. Two men stand nearby talking, one with overalls and boots up to his knees that remind her of her own new purple galoshes, which she looks down at and wiggles fondly before returning to her mission of walking by the men undetected. She had already been met by several tall, burly fisherman, a younger, thinner boy collecting lobster traps, and a frail-looking old lady, all of whom had smiled gently (albeit sometimes frighteningly, in the case of the gruff fishermen and their wiry beards) and offered her a kind word or cup of tea. Nunavut's older sister, Northwest, had always told her to be wary of adults who proposed gifts to her for no obvious reason, but her best friend Newfoundland had contrarily laughed once that his cove people were just very kind like that, and she had no need to worry.
Said boy is sitting at the water's edge, she finds, fishing pole held taught between his knees and sight focused on the horizon and its early foggy sun. His hands look particularly small in the giant, faded orange jacket that swallows the rest of his body, zipper open and arms wrinkled and bulging from so much readjustment. His pale face and short blond hair are barely visible under a grey toque, although Nunavut can hear him humming something lively, the sound whooshing towards her with the gusts of ocean air. She decides to hold off on calling to him -- because she does very much like the tune -- and instead takes her time skipping over to him, pausing when his song does and stepping sideways when the notes change. It turns into more so a game when she reaches the flat rocks of the harbour wall, and she jumps from one to the other, telling herself the space between is a burning pit of magma and she can't step on it, even a little. When she finally makes it to his side, her rubber boots pacing up and down as she swings her torso left and right, the boy turns to show her his beaming smile, which has surely been there for a while already, and laughs, "Nonny!"
Grinning and waving shyly from her close position she makes to sit down, but the motion suddenly persuades Newfoundland to mumble a loud, "Nah--wai'judsda--han'gohn--" and shuffle out of his heavy orange jacket, which he throws on the flat rock beside himself and then pats to offer to her. She pads onto it on her hands and knees, determined not to dirty the inside with her shoes, then readjusts herself so she can swing her legs back and forth over the small cliff. Newfoundland is smiling at her, his attention on his fishing rod gone, and she fidgets with the fur on the end of her coat awkwardly.
"Newfundle," she says suddenly, her eyes locked on his arm, "You got goosebumps." He makes a strange noise, rubs his arm briskly, and she continues, "I'm sittin' on your coat. Aren't'cha cold?"
Newfoundland chuckles, his voice cracking slightly, and waves his hands dismissively.
"No, s'foin--agh!" the words die quickly as he reaches to catch the falling fishing rod, it having slipped from between his legs and aiming to plummet into the icy water below them. Scrambling to reassert a lock on the stick, he finishes, "Newf'nland'rs're made'd'deal wid th'cold sea air."
Nunavut giggles at her friend's accent; it sounds thicker than usual, and she has to pause to figure out what he's said. They sit in silence as his attention is again brought to the line, contented smile still pasted on his face. Nunavut folds the arms of the coat beneath her over her legs, burying her hands in the wrong side of the sleeves and flipping them around.
"Guess what?" she asks, and she can feel Newfoundland glancing at her, "I'mma be twelve soon." The concept makes her stomach flutter, and she smiles, flapping the arms of Newfoundland's coat appreciatively.
"Good'onya," the boy beside her replies, pulling the fishing rod towards himself and then letting it loose again, "Y'gonna hav'n'ether pardy ad Nordwest's?"
"Mmm," she hums, thinking, "Nah, I wanna have a party at my house! 'Cause I'm a lot bigger now, and I ho... ho... had nations at my house for the G7 thingie, and...! And... and..." her words fade and her forehead scrunches up, suddenly confused, for she can't remember there ever being such an occasion; "Newfundle, when's your birthday?"
The province beside her seems to stop breathing for a moment, then lifts the fishing rod, having pulled the line in completely. He props it up on his hip and asks, "You wan’a’dry?" and Nunavut is torn for a moment, bothered by his not answering her question and yet immensely curious about the way the fishing rod works. The fishing habits of her people generally involve nets or long waits at holes in the ice, and though she has watched Newfoundland fishing before and understands the basics of it, she has never tried it for herself. She grins, nods, takes hold of the rod and the boy helps her position it just right; her hands tightly cling about the end and her knees wrap tightly to support the weight that was clearly not made for a child’s grip. Newfoundland shows her how to cast it, and they watch the line drift out through the wind and onto the suft. He backs his directing hands away slowly, as if expecting the rod to shatter like a house of cards, and then relaxes (although he still leans on his hands, ready, his eyes trained on the line). Nunavut makes an effort to look just as concentrated, squinting down at the water.
"…ah’ll be ‘boud five ‘undred’n fhardeen dis year." She looks up, caught off guard by the tone of his voice. Her companion’s eyes are trained on the waves, lit by the orange of the morning sun finally breaking its fog coat, and watery, beaten by salt air. He has gone still, his body stiff, and seems to be struggling to speak, the small Adam’s apple of his throat bobbing up and down as he swallows repetitively. Nunavut remains unmoving, thinking. Five hundred seemed like a very, very long time. And she was almost twelve, which was only a very, very small bit of her friend’s life. Before she was ever born, or in fact even an idea, Newfoundland had been around. He had been just a baby five hundred years ago. The boy who sits beside her looks like a child now, but her brothers and sisters all tell of him being a young man, tall and brave and old like them. She stares as her friend looks up at her, quickly, his eyes wide and worried, then snaps back to look at the sea, his mouth opening and closing like the fish he catches, and wonders how he could have ever been that way, old and tall and not like the Newfoundland she knows now.
"You were twelve before, right, Newfundle?" she breeches finally, tilting the fishing rod towards herself. The wind whips suddenly and pushes the tool back towards the water, and she scrambles to reassure her grip on it, but Newfoundland’s hand, only slightly bigger than hers, has already caught the rod.
"Yeah," he says, just loud enough to hear over the waves, "Ah was dwelve once… when Ah w’s dwelve, Ah was jus’ a’babe, nod as grown’p’r preddy’s you are." His gaze is on the line, watching it wave in the breeze, and his cheeks are flushed. He is still a moment, breathing slowly, chewing on his lower lip, then he sits up, grabbing hold of his pant legs, and starts speaking towards the horizon, his voice becoming louder and shaking, like Nunavut has known hers to do when she’s telling Northwest something she’s done wrong.
"Ah was jus’ liddle, ‘n Ah di’n ‘ave Lab yed, ‘n Ah was preddy much h’lone ‘cepd fer when France’r Narway’d come d’fish. When Ah w’s a’hundred’n dwelve, people starded livin’ on m’land, ‘n starded namin’ tings ‘n dere w’s lodsa fishin’ ‘n d’cod were so plen’yful… ‘n t’hosers fr’m ‘cross d’sea argued ‘n faugh’ o’er th’m… ‘n Ah used d’have m’own nadives, bud th’ b’yes fr’m ‘cross d’pond kil-hurdded’m widd’er diseases. An when Ah w’s‘boud du’hundred’n dwelve, No’a w’s born, ‘n Caber w’s ‘er own t’ing, ‘n Bruns’wi’d w’s jus’ a babe’n she w’s the sweedis’ ting, bud Ah’din’ see mahch’a dem e’en’ tho’ de’re roid nearby. Ah liked havin’ No’a ‘round ‘cause som’mimes ‘e’d come visid, ‘n e’en tho’ he w’s a’bid annoyin’ he w’s comp’ny, ‘n…" he pauses for just a moment to take a shaky breath, then continues speedily, "When Ah w’s t’ree’undred ‘n dwelve, K’bec ‘n Ahn’dario were jus’ kids, ‘n dere w’s so mhach fighd’n goin’ on all o’er d’place, bud Ah w’s s’ill alone ‘n quied ‘n Ah didn’ dalk’d anyone mhach, ‘n…"
Suddenly Newfoundland stops, closing his mouth with a quiet snap, and takes off his toque to run his fingers through his hair. He glances at Nunavut, at the rocks, and then back to Nunavut.
"Sarry aboud… sarry, Nonny. ‘M geddin’ carried away."
Nunavut has all but lost her attention on the fishing line, having been facinated with how Newfoundland’s face had scrunched and twisted as he spoke, how his eyes had shot up and down and fogged over. She begins to speak, to ask him to continue, but the rod in her hands suddenly jerks forward, and all her attention turns to it. The line is stretching taught down to the water. Newfoundland yelps and grabs the rod, his hands holding tight over hers, and he explains to her what to do to bring in the line, so quickly she can hardy understand what he’s saying. But it’s no problem, for the boy directs her more so with his movements, gesturing with a free hand how to turn the handle and bring the line in, how to tug and pull the rod to keep the fish on the line. Nunavut is laughing by the time they finally free the aquatic animal from the waves, writhing and flicking water on her face. Newfoundland expertly unlatches it from the hook, one thumb holding it aloft by the jaw, and he turns to smile at her, saying, "Beaudy, inn’y?"
She nods, grinning, and asks excitedly, "Can we eat him?" But at this Newfoundland’s expression fades, and he shakes his head. He takes the back of the fish in his free hand and turns it sideways in front of her.
"See d’line along’is side dere?" Nunavut nods, her eyes trailing the white line that runs from the creature’s gills to his tail. "He’s a cod. De’re endanger’d, ‘n we can’ fish’m anymhar." With that he nudges the fish towards her hands, and Nunavut takes it, tosses it back into the water, frowning.
"…Newfundle," she says then, her forehead furrowed, "I thought you liked cod a lot. How come you can’t fi-"
"’Cause e’eryone likes cod a’lod, Nonny," he inturrupts, sighing, "Ah’liddle avder Ah w’s five ‘undred, m’cod all dissappeared. Too much fishin’. M’cod w’s all Ah’ad. You were bharn only seven years a’der Ah turn’d…" he waved a hand, gesturing at his childlike body, "…like dis."
Both are silent, Nunavut playing with the coat below her once again and Newfoundland staring at his folded hands. Nunavut struggles with the empty air, trying to speak and then failing when the words reach her lips. A gull flies over their head, cawing, the sound raw and pained, and she watches it fight the gusts of wind that shoot around it like invisible waves. The battling bird inspires her, and before realizing she’s speaking, she asks, "Was it hard, Newfie?"
Newfoundland is suddenly chuckling, his head still tilted towards his crossed fingers but eyes pinched together, and giggles, "Nod really - ad kid heighd’cha don’ hid yer head’on dharframes s’much." She stares at him, confused, as the boy loses himself in his own wit, leaning forward with his gentle laughter. Eventually he wipes a hand over his face, his laughter dying down to the occasional hiccupy sound, and finishes more solemnly, "Nah, s’mosdly jus’ lonely."
"Lonely?" He finally looks at her, tapping his hands on the rock between his knees.
"Mm," he hums, his voice soft, "Like if you didn’ve Nord’wes’er Yukon’er… me. I-if y’were all by yerself ‘n nod even Madd’d be ‘round d’dalk do’er play wid ‘n no one’d say hi’d’yeh er anythin’. Jus’ lonely."
Nunavut sits still, staring at Newfoundland’s eyes, for the first time today unwavering, the brightest blue and silver, and whimpers, kneading a jacket sleeve between her fingers. The idea of being all alone, of being by herself in her snowy home with no one to help her learn to walk or speak when she was a baby, help her protect her people and tie the ribbons on her kamiks and play outside with when the weather was nice and tell her to be careful of strangers and nice to her brothers and to use her indoor voice in the house and-
"Newfundle!" she exclaims, tears pricking at her eyes, "That’s really sad!"
Newfoundland, startled, shuffles closer to her, his hands held up, and worries, "Oi, oi, oi, don’ cry, don’ cry, Nonny, ‘m sarry, Nonny, oi, s’alride-" She flails her arms helplessly, then twists and flings them around Newfoundland’s neck, burying her face in his shoulder. He chokes on his words a moment, saying, "S-s’alride, Nonny, s’nod gonna habben d’you, yer foine," but Nunavut starts shouting, her voice muffled in his shirt.
"Not o-okay, Newfundle! It's not fair! I don't like it! I do-on't want you to be lonely! 'M'ma stay will you all the time, okay? 'Cause then you wo-on't be lonely!"
Newfoundland sighs over her continued panicked rant and pulls her away, two hands on her shoulders and eyes coaxing her to look up at him; "Yer such'a swee'dard, Nonny," he chuckes gently, "Yer'a sweed'ard, but s'alride, a'kay? Thad was a lon'dime a'go, 'n Ah've god lod'sa brodders'n sis'ders now, 'n Ah've god'chu for a bes' friend, 'n 'M not lonely anymhar." Nunavut rubs her nose along her sleeve and frowns. "So," Newfoundland continues, smiling at her, "Wha'c'n'ah ged'cha for yer birt'day?"
Nunavut frowns at him, her bottom lip sticking out, eyebrows scrunched together, resiliant. Her nose is running and she sniffs, loudly, staring at the rocks by her knees. "I wa-ant," she begins, and then crosses her arms, "I want you to have your birthday with me, Newfu-undle." He stares, tilting his head ever so slightly to the side, just like his brother Labrador does, and Nunavut fights the urge to giggle. He looks genuinely concerned.
"Nonny," he starts, "Ah’m nod gonna intrude on yer birt’da-"
"I want you to! I want you to have your birthday with me ‘cause you haven’t had one since before I was born and that’s not good, Newfundle!" Her voice squeaks on his name and she whacks him with his coat sleeve. A long silence follows, a stare-off, Nunavut’s face creased in determination and Newfoundland’s bewildered. Unexpectedly, Newfoundland bursts out laughing, covering his eyes with his palms and letting himself fall backward, choking, "Awride, Nonny, awride!" She doesn’t grin until he admits, "Ah’ll have m’birt’day wid’chu, awride? If tha’s whad’chu want, ah’ll do it, a’kay?" Nunavut laughs victoriously and tries her best to hug him.
(No one can understand why Newfoundland’s eyes tear up when two cakes are presented on Nunavut’s twelfth birthday, one with twelve candles and the other a near raging inferno. No one understands why he laughs and kisses Nunavut bravely on the cheek. His brothers mock him and sisters coo and he takes it all in stride, but once the older provinces go off to drink and the younger fall into a deep sleep, he sits awake, giggling and crying and thanking every deity he knows for letting him exist long enough to meet the little territory who remembered him.)