Qeya River time for dying

she couldn't believe it.
the depths of her love for her husband continued to meet no frenzied end. here he was, staring at the face of her bludgeoned brother who spewed maniacal nonsense at what they were building together, and let him go.
the tension in her shoulders released as waves— down, down, down—
and then she vomited into the snow.
body hot, turmoiled, her diagnosis was confirmed. she turned to her husband, wondering if he knew the truth as well. their passion of tumbling against the caribou hides ended in fumigated life inside of her womb. brimming, growing.
and her brother lived.
gjalla was nervous. her words said as much. but she shant worry, not with her husband there. not with him, not ever.
the chieftain will protect us, gjalla. she reaffirmed, and said no more. there was nothing more to add, to say, not when her husband had evoked an act of mercy that was worth more than her own life.
this stress will be no good for the children, she turned to her husband, finally, the blood caking his lips as she sought to clean it from him. iron against her sweet lips.