Myrrha strode into the dimly lit hut, her tail flicking angrily behind her. The straw curtain brushed against her shoulder as she entered, shutting out the light of the outside world. She let out a low growl as her eyes adjusted to the gloom.

Juan stood at attention, his hands still tied to the pole behind him. His posture was hunched, as if he dreaded taking up space. She sighed at the sight. If he were exiled, she doubted he would survive until sundown, let alone through the night, and the only way to stop it was to demean herself.

He looked up at her, his wide, dark eyes blinking innocently, as though he were a helpless creature rather than a grown man. His face was now covered in wild, unkempt hair that had grown even more unruly over the past few weeks, giving him a distinctly feral look that clashed amusingly with the kittenish eyes he gave her every time she entered.

"Myrrha," he barked tentatively, attempting to gauge her intentions.

She ignored him, dropping her belt on the ground and pacing about, her tail stretching and recoiling. “I am a huntress of my tribe, and I will do as I must. I am a huntress of my tribe, and I will do as I must...” she kept whispering to herself. The mantra was clear: a promise to forsake self for the whole, to give one’s life for the good of the tribe. Myrrha never questioned it—more than that, she agreed wholeheartedly. If the task were to face a Wawayu, she would not hesitate, even if she might fear. And yet... this, of all things, gave her pause.

She turned to Juan. “You’re useless, aren’t you? All you do is eat, sleep, and bark. Oh, and let’s not forget eat! And you can’t even do it quietly in the dark—you just have to make a show of yourself every night, roasting our precious meat in front of everyone. People think you’re wasting food, you know? It makes it even harder for them to stand you!” She lashed out, raising her arms high before dropping them in utter defeat.

She sighed, rubbing her temples. “And now they want me to teach you how to weave. Me! Myrrha, daughter of Nienna, weaving! The tribe-mother has some nerve! I guess this is what I get for giving an inch!” She kicked her belt to the side with a growl.

“A-angry?” Juan dared to voice—a word he was quick to pick up despite never being taught.

“Yes, angry!” she snapped right back at him, causing the man to shrink. “I don’t weave! It’s insulting!”

Myrrha then turned her back on him, thinking that would have been the end of his input, until, as she turned to leave, she heard a tentative, “Why?”

Why? Of course, she knew why, and yet found herself struggling to spell it out. It was one of those things that was seeped into her bones. She never had to answer why; there was no need to—every Felix would understand without question. But Juan was not Felix.

It made her think. Why indeed did the thought of weaving bother her so much? She had no grudge against the art; truth be told, she remembered quite enjoying it in her youth. It was better than the monotony of cleaning seeds or the stings of ant farming. And yet, she would rather be caught doing either than weaving.

But why was that? It wasn’t that weaving wasn’t important—quite the opposite: it was everywhere. It made ropes and tethers, their offerings to the goddess, the straps of their scale armor, the belt she had just kicked. It literally held the bamboo in their huts together. It was vital for their way of life, so why did she dread it so?

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“Because it is for the weak,” she conceded. “Because when you think of weaving, you think of kittens humming in a circle. You think of the tribe-mother.” She took a deep breath, stilling herself. “And I’m not weak. I can’t be. I—” She stopped herself.

Why was she telling him all this? Somehow the words had just rolled off her tongue. She would not be caught dead revealing this to anyone, and yet there was something oddly disarming about the man. Maybe it was because he was so unlike a Felix—so small, so frail, so unjudgmental—that it made her drop her guard. With him, she had nothing to lose. Besides, he probably didn’t understand a word of it anyway.

Or so she thought.

"Weak?" he tugged her back to reality.

"Yes, like you," she waved him off.

"You weak?"

"No! I said you! Me—you. You weak, understand?" She hurriedly corrected him, pointing first to herself, then to him to drive the point home.

"Me weak?" he asked, scrunching his face as he often did. For a moment, he stared at nothing, seemingly deep in thought, or so she assumed—it was hard to tell what he was thinking without a tail to signal it. But then, instead of lowering his head in shame or growling back at the insult, he chuckled—a melancholic chuckle, but one nonetheless.

Myrrha froze, her mind stumbling over the sound. He was... laughing? Her tail stiffened in disbelief. She stepped closer, her eyes narrowing. "What's so funny?" she demanded, stepping closer. "How can you be fine with this? Are all your people this pitiful? Explain. Speak. Why?"

He shrugged, a gesture she had learned meant less than nothing.

All she could do was stare, dumbfounded. This creature—this man—this Juan. How could he be so at peace with his meekness? So unashamed to wear it like a second skin?

It unsettled her. For so long, she had weighed every action, selected every word, and kept her tail in check, even among her closest friends. All to maintain the image of strength her title demanded, careful not to let any cracks of doubt show, any hint of hesitation. Unlike him.

He did not fear weakness, she realized. She had spent her whole life dreading the thought of being seen as lesser, fearing fear itself. But he... he seemed to embrace it.

"How do you live with it?" she muttered without meaning to.

He shrugged again. Whether it was in response to her question or because he didn’t understand, she couldn’t tell. But there was a quiet resolve in his eyes, something far removed from power or survival, yet somehow connected to both. Maybe it took more strength than she had realized to live with fear. She thought of Nya, darting toward Thrawn with a speed she didn’t have, or even the tribe-mother, always scared but never afraid to show it.

Maybe Juan had some of that. Maybe she was curious. Maybe she wanted some of it.

Myrrha stared at the pile of straw at the back of the hut. Her claws twitched, unsure whether to reach for it. She bit her lip, taking a deep breath.

She bit her lip and took a deep breath. "Nobody here thinks you’re going to last, you know?"

His silence spoke volumes.

"So... I guess I have to prove them wrong." She went to the back of the hut and returned with some straw strings, clutching them tightly. "This... this is how you weave. Weave. Straw." She taught him the words, indicating both the action and the material.

Myrrha sat beside him, handing over the straw and watching as Juan fumbled with it, his fingers moving awkwardly. Her tail twitched as she observed his clumsy attempts, each movement slow and unsure, the straw slipping from his grip.

"No, like this," she sighed, scooting closer, taking his hands in hers and guiding his fingers. His hands were delicate, like a child’s, but she supposed so was weaving—fragile, yet enduring. Each strand connected to another, forming something stronger. And as they weaved, she found herself swallowing a hum that formed in her throat.

He fumbled again but kept at it. "Straw. Weave."

"Yes." She nodded. "Now, come, this is how you make a basket. Meanwhile... I'll teach you some curses because that’s all I can think of right now."

"Curse. Weave. Straw," he repeated, his voice halting but determined.

Myrrha felt her tail perk a bit. "Yes. Good to know you have your priorities straight."