Herbalists' Cache futurama

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.