Herbalists' Cache tide bound

morwenna’s eyes crinkle with the softest of smiles. she lifts her head slightly, gaze sweeping out toward the distant hills—toward something that is not there, but remembered.
i have seen it, she murmurs. the sea. endless, unruly, full of breath. the way it curls against the shore—like fingers that never stop reaching. it sings in a voice too ancient for words. i loved it once. and perhaps i still do.
a pause. a breath.
you may borrow my imagination, if you like, she offers gently, eyes drifting toward the pale shape of other shore. but the sea will outgrow even that. it’s too big to keep in your head for long.
she quiets for a moment, reflecting. then, with a wry smile: my tree… is heavy. old-limbed and bent by storms. but yes, it bears lemons. and peaches. and pomegranates, and wild figs, and strange fruits with names i’ve forgotten. she huffs, amused by her own metaphor. because it has lived many lives. and been grafted with the hands of those i’ve loved.
she looks at other shore then, something steady in her gaze.
when your tree grows, let it grow wild. let it hold every kind of fruit you dream of. and don’t let anyone tell you what belongs on its branches.