Lost Creek Hollow my light

eyes on the forest floor as sun eater's words wove a heavy tapestry of duty, survival, and sacrifice. she had known loss; she had known the weight of death and the unyielding march of tradition. his voice carried a rawness that she had not expected, and it cracked something in her. a pang that echoed deep, deeper still.

her gaze lifted to meet his, lingering on the way the tine rested against his chest, woven with care. a symbol of her offering. her trust. something she had not given lightly. his single eye, softened now, held her in place as his words settled into her bones.

leave them.

her mind drifted unbidden to rhaegon. his promises had been full of grandeur, but his love had been hollow. fleeting. she had learned, in that time, how fragile affection could be when not rooted in something deeper. when it was built on appearances, expectations, and pride. he had spoken of children— yearned for them, then put them to the torch.

and now, here was sun eater, speaking truths raw and brutal. there was no pretense in him. no facade. and yet, with his honesty, came a tenderness that surprised her—a desire not to see her hurt, despite the weight of his traditions. despite the weight of his life.

after a long pause, morwenna tilted her head, her voice so soft it was almost swallowed by the cold, still air between them. would you love them?

the words hung there, heavy with meaning, her gaze searching his face for an answer she feared, and yet yearned, to hear. the ache in her chest, a phantom of old wounds, sharpened in the stillness. this, she thought, was the only part that mattered to her. as a mother before, her own lover refuted the love he claimed to hold.

would you mourn children that we could lose?

this was the question that mattered most. not tradition. not the caribou. love. it was the only thing she could not compromise.