we cannot be created for this sort of suffering;

 in the days that followed, the nightingale had not permitted herself the slow braille touch of her rose; instead coaxed away into her great misted hollow by the rare, sororal draw that bid her find their unconventional palantír. there had been much she had liked to speak of with her: the capture, the recovery thus far
 — especially how that titan both known to them near went to his knees at only a scarce glimpse of her —
 with all things of mind for frostchant that remained just as veiled as ever, whether by willing inattention or what had not yet been perceived from heavy godslight. and still there was her own chagrin, worrying at the edges of her worn waxen spirit like teethtips; guilt at letting herself become gravid, when she could have ( should have ) championed her spellsinger's freedom at the shoulders and sides of all in attendance, rather than allow her season to have attended to her.

 but it has long since been done, she has been sown, and her womb remains weighed in the truth of her choice; and she finds her palantír, anyways, recently roused from one of her many reposes. did not go to her then, but goes to her now; pink nose whuffling in unforseen timidity at the shadowed spire of witch's shoulder:

 "@Olive."

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Olive was a healer, but she had not suffered much wounding in this lifetime.

Olive was a midwife, but she had never birthed babies through her own body.

Both of these facts weighed heavily on her mind as Olive convalesced, and learned much in the way of both of these modalities. In her own body, she experienced the ravages of trauma and malnourishment — given nothing but sea trash to eat for a fortnight — and she became intimately familiar with exhaustion in its most all-consuming form, sometimes sleeping in solitude for days. Besides her twisted ankle, it was her luck that most of her ailments were treated by a combination of sleep, sun, and safety. With these three pillars holding up her waifish body and weak psyche — the woman began to stitch together some semblance of herself that she once-again recognized.

She knew of her Sotaherra's pregnancy but did not know much about it, and certainly did not know of the guilt the spectre harbored about her role in the rescue; but here was her superior, seeking her company, and Olive responded in kind. The fur upon her shoulders raised at her whuff, and she shuffled over, making space for the widening woman to take repose and, like she, take in some of the world's most splendid sunshine.

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 when a place has been made for her the sotaherra goes to it; and once she's bedded down in a way that doesn't bruise her belly against the earth, she ends up with her chin resting modestly upon the seer's shadowed paws. for a time, she remains quiet. harbored. letting herself sway against the lull of olive's breathing before, finally, through the faint doze she'd settled blearily into: "when you told me that you wished to be useful, i did not know how to give you an answer that would seem most true," casting a lone gray past her crown, as if she meant to study the likebodied waif for a moment before dark lashes veiled all sight once more. "at the time, there was none to give. but there is not much i have told you of our ways. what is expected, what will be remade ...or what is old-day, and must be honored in the name of our tribe."
 her lidded gaze goes to what sprouts up from the loam of her oracle's claws and portends:"when i saw you spirit away with @Tiberius, with life in your eyes, i knew that your time as our palantír would be at an end. if, say, you chose to share your season with him ...such moorings to the earth do not befit one that our betters speak through. even when it is more than holy, in the end."

 something sour welled up in the pit of her belly, telling the truth of tribeways; but it was neccessary. perhaps such an ordeal was not by and fault of the spellsinger herself, no — but the price to be paid for the threat to her own life must be so. if only to keep her close to their hearth, here, and remind her of her place within what the sotaherra hoped she still called home. whether it was the strain of pregnancy upon her frayed, wearied figure or something other entirely, she does not know; but she lifts her ruined head, wincing at the stiffness in her neck, and readies to import to olive the severity of what might have gone wrong.

 but tears come instead, choking;
 errant and entirely unbidden.

 "you are my sky-sister," came the quiver of her sylvan throatful words, "and i do not like to do this thing. yet it is imperative that you step down, so you may live as you choose to. i cannot allow you to scry these heavens with only half of your heart sent up." a wan shake of her head; silver eye gleaming hot and wavery. "i would like this to be the first step on our path to remaking what frostchant means to be. you have more than earned your life with us," looking down between the dreamgiver's thin paws once more, "but i need you with me in these coming seasons. even more so, if children will be a choice of yours as well."

 that she could never nor would ever deny.

 "i was not there to fight your battle, as i should have. i will not forgive myself for not ...not ...oh, please — understand that i do this from my heart all for yours," the sotaherra bids, although olive might known before she had even come to see her. and if argument arose, she would earnestly weather it for the sake of structure; stability and support for this new, clumsy beginning. to gain some semblance of foothold, of sense in the garden of everything they strove to grow. even with inarius gone from them and her firsts left to their weald's mists.

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At first, there was nothing between them but sunbathing. But as Riannons stirred, so did her thoughts. Olive's gaze tracks that of her leader's as what boiled beneath the surface bubbled over; at first, Riannon's meaning was so veiled that Olive continued to regard the topic with a sense of deference and leisure, but when the name of her shadowed, lucid titan was brought forth, her expectations began to metamorphose. Her ivy gaze tightened.

Then, it was all out on the table.

Olive let her attention drift away from the mirror-like waif who lay lopsided, abreast — and she looked past her, to the summered pines that lay just beyond them, and then the darkened underbrush beneath that, until she wasn't even looking at anything, she eyes were just settled. unfocused. “Oh…” she allowed to eek out of her throat, more to acknowledge that the transmission was received, and to beg for another moment of silence before a response was necessitated, and she must reckon with this new truth —

Her feelings towards such a thing were layered and complicated. At the surface, Olive steamed and wondered what might be persuading Riannon to enforce this mandate now? It felt as though it were a punishment (for being so reckless, for endangering Frostchant, for engaging in liaisons outside of the pack), but when she dove a little deeper, Olive knew that this was out of her hands. Within a pack, she was not the arbiter of her own fate. She must play by the rules of the game she was in, and if the Sotaherra believed her to better befit another rank other than seer...

Well, Olive would just have to trust that this was done for the best of Frostchant, and for the best of herself.

Even as the opposite sky-sister began to cry, Olive pressed herself against the other but could not will herself to look, or speak. Only when the other was finished did she proceed, ready to face the paradox. “I am not born of Northern culture, and cannot claim it as my own”, she began at long last, her voice low and carefully paced. A sigh came before her verdict. "I don't agree with this part of it," she said, “but I have vowed to respect and abide by the law you impose.” This was all there was so be said, wasn't it? What was Olive to do; challenge the pregnant woman who had housed her small family and come to her rescue, as best she could?

Still, the pain of having her meaning and intention stolen from her was a keen wound. "Though some might say that a gravid woman is more closely aligned with the meaning of life itself," she claimed, as this was how she understood it to be. “I can still see how motherhood might distract one from their duties.” This, too, was true. The more she thought of this, the more it couldn't be rationalized either way, so Olive deferred to the values of her superior. This was what she meant when she said "I suppose you will soon know that better than I," although maybe there was more snark coloring her words than was truly needed.

Olive shifted over her midline and lay on her opposite side, giving space to visibly glance over the gentle curves of her belly. She could not deny the pull she felt towards this fate, or the desire to continue her love story in the only way the spring would bade her, but still Olive grasped for what she felt slipping away; the god-sense that meant more to her soul than a family did to her biology " I am not yet espoused or ripe for the season, must the decision be made now?" the waif nearly whined, her gaze dropping. What was the use? To what end did she desire these responsibilities?

"The Gods; they offer no protection, anyways—" she intoned quietly, the truth pricking behind her eyes. "Or perhaps I have indeed gone truly blind,"

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rushed reply sorry snshjdhd

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 "it must," came her verdict, lone gray eye only momentarily lidded at the almost-gripe that winnowed harpstring last from the waif's mouth. other than one who did not scry the veins of this world for their tundrian haltija but instead her own was no less dimishing to the sacred, oldgrown traditions than the sotaherra holding the scythe. nevermind that her olive was not the male-meant she-seer, to better find these strange stars cycled in the tribe's favor — no. the nightingale was not one to wax tragedy over unconventional climes, for she knew the necessity of fledgling beginnings before the pack truly swept from its perch and embarked upon its first flight as one. ...but here, and now, with this new dream of spring pushing through the tired stone of her highwalled, hidden heart, it was more than neccessary. "and what we need now is structure. it will afflict the tribe further if we do not set things as they must be. if our faith is one that you cannot follow, then i will not burrow you into a position that bids otherwise."

 even if it twinged sallow her heart for olive to keep to her own ways;
 but likewise she rescinded, bartering the eye of equal.

 and nor did she think olive blind, as she seemed to of herself; if allowed, the pink of her nose eventually rose, nudging into the shadowy bulb of fluted ear in an attempt at consolation. it is where she exists, for a moment, for a few, before she is coaxed away once more by the pull of tepid conversation. "you must know how angular it would be, even with goodwill intended. say that our shepherd, or, a strider, what will you, prompts you to consult the thoughts of jumala? instead of doing what is asked of our ways, you would lend your ear to your own faith. although such a thing is not sallow, and answer can be found in what we do not pray to, the sower would not know that. the seeker would not be looking for a spirit not crafted of our aged words." if riannon showed any offense to the witch's prior words, she did not show it.

 that the search for her shadowlove's children had waylaid her progress on all this was truth, but only half — and it was long overdue for this lifecraft.

 whether or not she found each and every one of them, or none at all.

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There was truth to what Riannon was positing, and Olive could put up no fight against truth. The simple facts were that there was an established structure to Frostchant and their northern, nordic ways — it existed long before Riannon or Olive, and would bend to the wants and wishes of neither. The Sotaherra was no more responsible for upholding this law as she was for creating it. As the pack grew, so changed its needs; and so did their roles.

"If I cannot fully embrace a calling," the woman admitted humbly, blinking the emotion from her eyes, "then I am not it's truest vicar." If one could see past their ego, they could see that this had nothing to do with their worth or value, and that nothing was truly being stripped from her. The prophet Esra could practice her her magic and clairvoyance in whichever way she saw fit; so why attempt to practice a closed modality that she had not been born into, nor biologically chosen for by the Gods?

—why did she feel so defeated by this?

It was a good reminder that not all spirituality was as open as she proclaimed herself to be, but if Olive couldn't match such perameters; then who amongst these wilds could? "But who is, Riannon?" she questioned with an earnest tone tingling upon her lips, wondering who could possibly hold this torch, this flame. Did Riannon hope to carry all this burden herself; or perhaps, this was part of Eira's influence?

Olive looked down at her paws, and murmured towards the earth, "You are certain that my children would be welcome, in addition to your own?" and then all that came to her was silence, internally acknowledging that it was all for the good of Frostchant — you have more than earned your life with us Riannon had said, but Olive felt uncertain what place such a life life was allowed to fill.

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 "yes."
 she answers to the last without hesitation; not out of any hope or means to preserve her own decency, but because she sought to put to rest whatever doubt on the matter olive might have. she would find no ill-will harbored with the sotaherra where pups were concerned. "...there is not much to contest for, here, really," admits the nightingale, with a reserved chew on her marred lip despite the momentary, anxious crease betwixt half-shorn brows. "i only wish that there were more of a guard, to keep out those who would attempt to upset what we will build here. to protect the tribe's whelps, and what must be taught to help them survive." survive and live for the life they would be brought into; find their rhytmn in this world.
 she speaks no more, then; biting her tongue at the words that might elicit worry where there need not be any. with the talk of pups, she understood that her shade might choose to disperse with her dark warrior — and she would not, could not fault her for that inescapable, inevitable tug that drew one soul after another.
 so for now, the snowhite looks upon olive once more; silver head canted, eye resting on the downswoop of her snout, her fluted cheekbone; and up to the temple again that she had put her mouth to earlier. hushed; shawled with the mein of patience as her own stir within the pale round of belly.

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