Arrow Lake The terror you feel in quiet moments is not misplaced, just mistimed

And Aurëwen gazed along with her son, nosing gently at the pudgy cheekbones and the raveny down about his shoulders — let them both sit in quietude for a time. But when she felt her own gaze of sleep press against her, and felt the same of Dragomir, she knew it was time to return to the shadows.

Gently, as if in a fleeting and familiar dance, the silver mother took Drago between her jaws and shepherded him  ( back to where Isilmë dozed )  further into the thicket so as not to be so hazardously-near to the entrance. She curled herself sickle-like about her babes, and paid particular mind to Dragomir, humming and trilling with understanding. Aure didn’t like to see him mope as he did; there was nothing more she wished than to let the children experience and explore all they wished.

They were children first, though. And children needing nurturing, guiding; to let a little more their way, bit by bit.

The wanderlust he felt must surely have been bartered from her line — what other explanation was there? When she’d been a whelp, she had been entirely like her blackberry boy; eager, in that freeing, endless way, hungering for the world and all its histories, even when she’d turned to starlight  ( for a time. )  The moment her legs strengthened and her eyes could see and her ears heard — she was voracious. 

Of course, not as wildly ravenous, anymore, but that trait never failed to break through her porcelain masque more oft than not. Aurëwen thought all of this while humming some vague cradle song, passing and laving her tongue lovingly along Dragomir’s dusted self. Let the  melody rumble through her throat at his shoulders, all in an attempt to soothe that restlessness regardless of whether her actions proved futile or no.