Wapun Meadow victorian writer 2 steps away from dying of brain fever

For what it was worth, Aurëwen couldn’t meet his gaze, either; awash in such appreciation and apprehension as her own eyes were. So she kept her soulful, ardent gaze turned from his own — lashes remained heavy on scarred cheeks, hearing him speak of absolute should-it-be death. Fluted ears quivered and fell back, at that, but it didn’t stop her from lingering close when he finished his soliloquy with trying and guarentees. Her throat constricted, just as his had, in the lull that followed between them.

So many things wrested themselves from her cinched heart, clambered up the pale rise of her throat and to her tongue; so many things perfectly suited to her unawares-loquacious self; so many things that would undoubtedly drown this... moment, this... vulnerability, of a sort. But all Aure did instead was to reach up on her toes, of course give a reassuring little nudge to his chin and murmur, “Thank you... Andúril.”

The silver only met his eyes when she was able to step away from him once more — whether he’d reciprocated or no — and spoke once more. Voice holding the same gentleness his had before, “Verx, I... my eye, it... it was him. Days ago.” Ears cast themselves back, and she knew that ‘him’ was nothing to really go on; but the tender glimmer within her argent gaze shuttered, and she could only look away, eyes closing. “Dennan.”

And there it was — and there was her heart, her blood, roaring through veins that burned with shame that had no place, no need to be within her figure. “I don’t... I don’t know where he went, after, I...” As with those seemingly-awkward moments before, it took everything within her to not flit away. ...But it was more than fair, and Verx’d more than finally coaxed it from her, albeit indirectly.