Herbalists' Cache futurama

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 ;-;