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“You wanted a wild wolf-girl,” I say in a strangled voice that doesn’t sound at all like my own. “You got one.”
A pitiful dawn creeps over the forest, the pinks and golds of sunrise strained through the dark latticework of tree branches and bracken, squeezing out their color.
“Our gods don’t ask us for perfection.” Just as we don’t expect rhyme or reason from our gods. They’re fickle and stubborn and heedless and indulgent, like us. The only difference is that they burn whole forests to the ground in their rage, and drink entire rivers dry in their thirst. In their joy, flowers bloom; in their grief, early winter frost edges in.
“If we continue this way,” he says slowly, “it will be a very long journey.” My knuckles are white around my horse’s reins. After a moment I let my muscles relax, shoulders slumping beneath my wolf cloak. “Fine,” I say. But in my head, I think, Stupid prince.
Just past her hut, Tuula’s reindeer move in blurs of silver, like clouds drifting. Their antlers are bone grails, holding cupfuls of sky.
A bad memory shared between two people carries with it only half the pain.

