Arrow Lake If you see something, say nothing and drink to forget

He flit this way and that, and though her words seemed to have fallen on half-distracted ears, the boy still proved that he was, in fact, listening to her by some degree; he whirled to her as she’d said his name, and was now attempting to blab along to the previous word given emphasis in Aaanana. It brought the grin back to her lips in full, and she stept toward him with a chirrup of ”Aaanoni.​“ giving a resolute nip at the snowdrift.

Perhaps she should wait, then, fidgeting for each day that passed when — whenever — her children would say their first words. Verx had been present for their eye-openings and their first-walkings; but he would not be here to, well, hear their first words. It wasn’t in her condemn him for it, and yet... how many first happenings would he be absent from? If she’d known what he’d promised to his children alone, then her wearied heart would have been endlessly eased.

As it was, though... Aurëwen did not know. Yes, for the time, Diaspora would help to rear their children, to help them thrive. However, though, they may have been birthed here — but they hadn’t been made here, dreamt of, here. They were children from the sea: Isilmë, the pearl, who filled their world with light. Dragomir, the sturdy, clutching basalt that anchored them all to earth; both created by a forager of mountains and a warrior of salt.

In whatever ways, her own solemnity would fade, but only time would come to tell and know. Whatever purpose had taken her beloved from her would, she hoped, bring him back; her bright-dark family held her heart, her soul. It was inevitable, inescapable, and she brimmed with it and wished for nothing else.

After a few more beats, Aure moved past this moment and approached their son, humming, ”Noni, noni, noniii,” before kneeling to lave her tongue at bits of snow at his mauve shoulder. ”Are you cold, balaur meu?” Perhaps she should shepherd him into the thicket soon...