Herbalists' Cache futurama

the wind moves slow today, curling soft as breath around the snow-capped stones. star eater tracks the familiar silhouette ahead, the pale sweep of @Gjalla's back moving between drifts. she calls her with a gentle chuff, closing the distance until they walk side by side, silent but for the crunch of ice beneath their steps. each of them carries the weight of caribou dewclaws between their jaws, the clinking of bone a steady rhythm.
tension hums low between them, an invisible thread pulled taut. star eater does not ask why. she does not want to know. whatever blackfell has whispered into gjalla's ear, she lets the secret rot there. it will remain buried between them like so many other things.
at the snow shelter, she places the dewclaws in the circle, her movements careful, almost reverent. protection. strength. no ill omens would cross this threshold.
only after the last claw is set does she speak, voice quiet beneath the pale sun. i heard you are going with my husband. her eyes do not lift from the snow. disappointment sits bitter on her tongue, but she does not hide it. i… words fail her for a moment, caught in the wind. she shakes her head, exhaling slowly.
is… that what you wish?

the wind stirs between them, slipping cold fingers through her fur, though it is not the chill that tightens her spine.

"it is what i have chosen." a choice, not a wish.

her ears flick, catching the shift in morwenna’s voice, the way her words settle heavy between them. she has never known her friend to withhold her thoughts, and yet here they stand—morwenna weighed down by the weight of unspoken words, and gjalla unwilling to ease the burden unless it is stated outright.

"you disapprove." a statement, not a question. she can hear it in her voice, see it in her posture. she knew her sister, even in times like these, when their bond felt thin.

she lifts her head, turning to face her companion fully now. in morwenna's eyes, she does not find anger nor judgment, but something quieter. deeper. it is this, more than anything, that digs under her skin. 

Gjalla exhales sharply, shaking out her fur, as if to loosen something coiled tight in her chest. "you do not have to say it." a touch softer now. "i know." it was not her intention, to hurt her, though she knew now that it did.

star eater's jaw tightens. she watches gjalla carefully, as if her gaze alone could smooth out the tension folded between them. but it only grows, gnawing at the edges of her heart until she cannot hold the silence any longer.
she sucks in a breath, sharp and brittle. i just… the words falter, dissolve like frost against her tongue. her gaze falls to the snow, to the dewclaws laid with such care. protection. blessings. and yet, who would protect her? who would bless her children?
a sigh, soft and long. my mother is dead. there are no elders here. her voice wavers, quieter now. i thought you would be there when they are born. help me. her throat tightens as she turns her eyes back to gjalla, searching, needing. like i would help you.
it feels too raw to say, but she lets it sit between them anyway, exposed and trembling. because gjalla is her sister in all the ways that matter. because there is no one else she trusts to keep her steady when the pain comes and the blood runs and the pups take their first breath.
and yet now… she feels the space widening. the choice made. not a wish, no. but a choice all the same.

a wound she cannot see tears open inside her, raw and aching. 

gjalla does not break easily—she had weathered storms, stood against death and lived still, had stood unshaken beneath the weight of loss. but this? it is a grief she cannot explain, and she hates it. hates how morwenna was the only wolf to find it. it strikes something deep, something tender and fiercely guarded. 

morwenna’s words sit heavy in her chest, pressing against her ribs, threatening to steal the air from her lungs. she does not look away, cannot look away from the hurt in her friend’s eyes. it is a quiet thing, but gjalla has always known how to read between the silences. after living in them, it became easy.

"wenna…" the name is an exhale, unsteady. "i would." that was the plan! she would be there. she should be there!

and yet, when she was swelling with heat, she had chosen differently. she clenches her jaw, teeth grinding as she looks away, staring into the pale horizon as if it might offer her answers. it does not. 

"forgive me, i—" a pause to collect herself, "you know i would never leave you alone, mo." her voice is hoarse, ragged around the edges. "i am with you, always. your mother, your elders, they lend you their strength." surely, after all she shared with the woman, there was some faith shared there.

her breath shudders, and for a moment, she wishes she had never answered sun eater's call. wishes she could undo the distance, the choice, the aching space between them. "tell me what you want, you know i will do it."

star eater tries to swallow it down, but it crests anyway, swelling sharp in her throat. her lip trembles before she can stop it, and when she speaks, her voice is thin and trembling, laced with the weight of too many things unsaid.
no, no, she breathes, shaking her head as tears gather, blurring the soft lines of gjalla's face. if you must go... i do not—i do not want to hold you back.
her ears flick, ashamed, even as the first tear spills hot down her cheek. she huffs a soft, wet laugh, paw brushing roughly at her face. these damn hormones, she mutters, trying to joke, but it only makes her cry harder.
there's such a strange, awful ache unraveling inside her. she hadn’t meant to do this. hadn’t meant to make gjalla feel guilty. hadn't meant to make herself this... exposed. and yet here they are, dewclaws and fur at their paws, the half-finished shelter casting its long shadow over them both.
her gaze drops to the snow, blinking fast to clear her vision. i just thought you’d be there. when they come. her voice breaks on the last word, quiet as the wind. a silly idea, maybe.
she inhales slowly, lets the cold air fill her chest until the ache doesn't feel quite so sharp. she meets gjalla's eyes again, searching. but i understand. i do. you have your path, and i have mine. another tear slips free, but she doesn't wipe this one away.

sh, no. no, no. 

gjalla can stomach many things—pain, war, the weight of blood on her teeth—but not this. never when it came to mo’s trembling voice, not with the way her face crumples like she’s trying so hard not to fall apart and failing anyway. 

a breath shudders through her. ice cracks. mountains tumble. something inside her snaps.

"wenna,” it’s not a word, but a vow, heavy with everything she doesn’t know how to say. 

she moves before she thinks, before she can think to do anything else. the distance between them is closed in an instant, her nose pressing against a damp cheek. she exhales warm against her fur, kissing away the tears before they can fall too far, before the cold can claim them. 

"sweet sister," a murmur against her skin, firm, unyielding. "you are not silly. you are not holding me back. i—" her voice catches, swallowing thickly. gjalla pulls back just enough to meet her gaze, something raw and resolute burning in her eyes. 

"i will not miss this. if i have to walk day and night to reach you in time, i shall. nothing will ever rid me from your side."

she lets the words settle, lets them sink deep, because they are the truth. they are the only truth that matters. she has made many choices, some foolish, some reckless, some that have driven a wedge between them. but this one? 

this one is simple.

---

alright WHOS CUTTING ONIONS ;-;

star eater leans into her, pressing her face to the curve of gjalla’s neck, letting the warmth of her linger. breathing her in like salvation. like home. the ache inside her is old and greedy—it has gnawed at her since girlhood, since those first silent prayers to have someone, anyone, who might stay. and gjalla... gjalla had always stayed.
thank you, she whispers, and it tastes like more than words. like devotion, like grief, like guilt curled inside the marrow of her bones. truly, gjalla. i— her throat tightens, sharp and sore. you deserve so much better than me. it is a confession, a truth she’s carried silently for moons, maybe forever. better than all this. better than... blackfell.
her lips twitch as she speaks his name, bitter and regretful, tasting the wrongness of it. how many times had she promised herself she would not be selfish? that she would not cling to gjalla so tightly, not wrap her up in the chaos of her own unraveling? and yet, here she is. here they are.
but i can't help it, she breathes, barely audible. i am selfish. i want you with me. i always have.
her gaze lifts, searching gjalla's with something tender and worn and desperate.if you will come... then come. and when they are born, i will name a girl after the stars, a soft, sad smile, fragile as snow. so they may always know what loyalty looks like.

gjalla’s heart stirs in her chest, a heavy beat that thunders. the way morwenna leans into her cracks open something she’s tried to keep buried under layers of stone for a long time.

she holds her tighter, arms coming around her protectively, as though to wrap her in a promise. The words are both a weight and a balm; they fall from morwenna’s lips, raw and jagged, and gjalla feels them carve into her soul.

"perhaps i am just clingy," she murmurs, a jest to soothe her sister’s troubled spirit. she holds her gaze, keeping it steady. "i choose you, mo. all of you. i would not have it any other way."

the ache in her chest shifts, changes. it doesn’t hurt so much anymore. it softens.

"through whatever comes, you will never be alone. let the child be a reminder of that—of me, if i cannot reach you. they will know loyalty, but more than that, love."

the words feel true. solid. like they could fill the space between them and stretch across every shadow that had ever threatened to come between them.

"..there is something i have been meaning to ask you. insight, perhaps.”

star eater hums softly, leaning into the warmth of gjalla’s hold as if she might steal some of her steadiness for herself. the thought of gjalla's loyalty, her love, burrows deep—settling somewhere tender that had long been left hollow.
her gaze drifts over the snow, over the shelter she built with trembling paws and too many dreams, before finally tipping back to her sister with a soft smile.
anything, she says, the word falling easily, honestly. her tail curls around her side as she rests her chin atop gjalla's shoulder, as though to anchor herself to the moment. ask me anything, and i will answer.
she waits, patient and unafraid, voice quiet but certain as the wind through the pines.
what sits on your tongue, gjalla? ask it.

gjalla exhales slow, like she’s releasing something she’s kept locked away for too long. for a moment, she simply rests there, feeling the press of morwenna’s chin on her shoulder, grounding her in a way nothing else can. it steadies her, reminds her that even when the world shifts beneath her feet, she is not alone.

her jaw tightens then loosens again. she isn’t used to sharing, not really, but if there’s anyone she will share with, it’s her.

“i have been thinking. i.. want to rebuild stormrift, one day.” the words come out firmer than she expects, but they carry the truth of her heart. her people, her home. she wanted her naval home to be more than just a memory, more than just ash in her mind. “not today. not tomorrow. but soon.” she lets the words settle between them, lets them carry the weight of what they mean.

there is a silence, but it isn’t heavy. It simply lingers, waiting, before Gjalla finally speaks again.

“i don’t know if he will follow me.” Her throat tightens, her voice rough with something unspoken. blackfell. she doesn’t say his name, but it lingers between them, bitter and raw. “i don’t know if he wants to go anywhere with me.” and it was her fault, wasn't it?

she turns her head slightly, looking at Morwenna now, searching her face for something she cannot quite name. “I don’t know what that means for us.” for me. for him. for this thing between us.

gjalla did not do romance, and even now she had few bonds outside of loyalty. this is the closest she’s ever come to asking for guidance, for wisdom beyond her own stubborn heart. and if there is anyone who can help her find her answer, it is morwenna.

star eater listens in the way only she can—quiet and patient, her silver gaze fixed on gjalla as if the woman is spilling out something sacred, something that deserves to be handled gently. and it does. oh, it does.
the mention of stormrift earns a small, knowing smile. she exhales through her nose, tilting her head, as if studying her dear stargirl with fresh eyes. of course. how could she not have seen it? it all makes sense now.
a soft tsk rolls from her tongue, affectionate, amused. stormrift has always been a matriarchy, she murmurs, low and velvet smooth. the valkyra were at the helm of your mother's artillery. her head tilts, the sharp arch of her brow lifting as she brushes her shoulder softly against gjalla's. blackfell is not a second son destined for a consort.
she lets that linger. the truth of it. the weight. not cruelly, no, but as a gentle reminder. as fact. gjalla was trying to shape a future from a man who had never been taught to follow.
it appears you're at an impasse, my stargirl. the words are warm, not mocking. tender, even, as her smile curls wider. maybe i was wrong. you are a queen in your own right. and the pride in her tone is impossible to miss. star eater sees her clearly now—who she is, who she was meant to be. not some shadow of a man’s ambition. but herself. fierce and bright.
she leans in close enough to press her nose just behind gjalla’s ear, a soft, sisterly touch. if it is my blessing you seek... you have it. always. her voice drops, softer still. but blackfell... a pause, her gaze flicking out to the glacier, to where the man in question no doubt broods. he is more lanzadoii than crownore. and you, my love, were never meant to be anything less than sovereign.
she pulls back, smiling gently now, gaze crinkling at the corners. so the question isn't if he will follow you, gjalla. it's if you're willing to wait for him to realize he should.
star eater shrugs a delicate shoulder, playful and serene, like none of this weighs on her at all. but if he doesn’t... there are other men. she winks, mischief curling her lips. better ones, too.

Gjalla laughs, the sound soft but rich with the weight of truth and a little relief. The air between them feels lighter, the tension from earlier unraveling slowly. It’s the kind of laugh that would echo in the air, if there were any echoes to catch it. She leans back slightly, still close enough to feel the warmth of Morwenna’s presence, but her mind feels clearer, a bit steadier now.

Her eyes, searching, soften as they meet Morwenna’s, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them—something deeper than mere affection. This bond they share has always been one of quiet understanding, of truths unsaid but still known. Of love.

She sighs softly at the last words, a playful smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "other men?" she scoffs, her voice rich with both amusement and the faintest bitterness. "i’ve known too many men. if it were about best choice, i think i'd have a wife by now." she trails off, her throat tightening briefly at the thought. she didn't think it was much of a secret, though.

“i wanted to build something with him. something stronger than us. more than us.” Her voice softens, but the pain there is subtle. “but you are right. changes would have to made to accommodate,” she exhales slowly.

there had been times, in her youth, she thought she and morwenna could rule together. if not side by side, then still as friends. an auspicious pair, no one could deny it. it is everything she can’t say aloud. everything she never could, or was too afraid to years ago. the thought is still there, lingering, but somehow easier to breathe with morwenna by her side.

---

and they were roommates...

star eater hums low, a sound that is almost a purr, almost a sigh, and rests her head gently against gjalla's shoulder. she takes in her scent like it’s something sacred, something steady. of all the chaos that has come to pass, gjalla remains. and that is a comfort no other can offer.
then wait, she whispers, voice soft as fresh snow. stay until they can walk. they must know their mother’s sister. a smile curves on her lips, slow and warm, and she means every word. who else will teach them to be fierce?
her gaze drifts out toward the quiet, the hush of the glacier beyond their sheltered place. it is cold, but here—beside gjalla—it does not feel so bitter. she shifts, brushing her flank lightly against her sister, the bond between them palpable.
and if you are to build something stronger than us, she adds, voice thoughtful now, then let them be part of it. my children. our stories. stormrift and saatsine—let them carry it, too.
there’s a glint in her eye then, playful but edged with steel. you know, i always thought you’d end up with a woman. would've been less trouble. her grin sharpens as she tilts her head to nudge gjalla’s cheek. but you pick blackfell. so now i suppose we both have difficult men to manage.
it’s a jest, but beneath it, the affection is real. unwavering. her gjalla. her stargirl. her sister in all things.
and she thinks, maybe, this is the way it always should have been.

gjalla exhales with something close to relief. there is no one else in the world who could tether her like this, no one else who could remind her who she is without demanding she change.

she leans into morwenna’s warmth, tilting her head just slightly, enough that their temples brush. "then i will wait," a promise; it is the least she can offer, after all the years they have walked side by side. "they will know us both," a huff of breath, something like a laugh. "they will always have a place beneath stormrift's banner, if need be. as will you."

she follows her sister’s gaze to the ice beyond, to the vast, endless stretch of pale blue and white. gjalla is still watching the horizon when her sister speaks again, and her laugh this time is full-bodied, an exhale of pure, unguarded amusement. "mmph, if only," she muses, shaking her head.

she turns back to morwenna, nudging her side in return, playfully rough. "i have never taken the easy path. neither of us." Her eyes glint, filled with something old and fond. "we make do."

star eater hums, content in the shared warmth, her muzzle resting briefly against gjalla's temple as if to seal the promise between them. the wind bites at their backs, but together, it hardly matters. they’ve always endured storms better side by side.
then wait you shall, she whispers, voice low and fond, the words carried like a vow on the cold air. and they will know you, know us both. i’ll make sure of it. her gaze follows gjalla’s to the horizon, where the pale world stretches unbroken, and for a moment she pictures it—stormrift banners flying high, her babes trailing behind her like little shadows, knowing they belonged not just to her, but to something greater.
she chuckles, deep and soft. you speak as if there is an easy path, she teases, leaning into gjalla’s nudge with a grin. i have yet to see it. perhaps we are cursed to always carve our own way.
her eyes gleam then, touched with mischief and something weightier beneath. but we make do, she echoes, voice stronger this time, steady as the ice beneath their paws. and we always will, my stargirl.

the gentle press of morwenna's muzzle to her temple feels like something binding. something permanent. and gods, how gjalla wants it to be. if she could carve the world in two and make a space where only they existed, she thinks she would.

her throat tightens. "your children will know me, as mine will know you," she murmurs, as if it is already set in stone. her mouth twitches at the thought—her children. it feels like an impossible thing, like trying to grasp water with bare hands, but if morwenna has already painted the image, then gjalla lets herself taste it too. storm-eyed whelps who scream like she does, who love like she does. who will learn to fight and fall and rise again, just like she did.

she huffs a short, bitter laugh. "i think it’s just who we are. we don't know any other way. we were meant to carve paths. no one was ever going to clear it for us."

the sharp edge of her bitterness flashes hot again, settling low in her gut. she cannot help herself. "maybe it would’ve been easier," she mutters, glancing sidelong at the woman. "if it had been you." the words come too quickly. gjalla freezes, heat rushing to her face, and she quickly shoves them down with a rough laugh. "less trouble, at least." a half-truth.

she does not look at morwenna as she continues. "but no. i never make the easy choice." even when she should have. even when it felt like setting her heart on fire, she chose him. "if it is not right for us, the gods will show us, and that will be the end of it"

and she means it. if blackfell cannot meet her where she stands or if she cannot stand beside him, truly—then she will not break herself trying to drag him along. she will build a life without him, and if it is bitterness that carves her ribs hollow, then so be it.

morwenna listened, silent and solemn, as gjalla spoke. each word was a blade honed in truth, each syllable carving deeper into the space between them, a space that had once been so vast but now felt like the mere breath of a whisper.
she would know gjalla’s children, just as gjalla would know hers. a promise. an oath. it settled into the marrow of her bones, unshakable. her lips twitched, a soft, knowing curve, but she did not interrupt.
gjalla was fire, raw and untamed, but there was something else beneath—something quiet, something vulnerable, and for a moment, morwenna could see it laid bare. a life unlived, a choice unmade.
her words came quickly, too quickly, and the weight of them lingered in the space between them. if it had been you.
morwenna did not flinch. did not stiffen. only let the words settle where they fell, untouched. she had always known the path she walked would be a lonely one, carved by her own will and no other’s. but had things been different… she did not entertain the thought.
instead, she reached forward, brushing her muzzle against gjalla’s cheek—firm, reassuring, a tether to steady them both.
it is not in us to choose the easy path, she murmured, voice a quiet certainty, only the right one.

fade