Blacktail Deer Plateau there's a voice that pulls me stumbling through a symphony

@Rosencrantz & @Lokie. Evening, July 4th, after this.

She seethes as a springtide tempest might, untapped with the remnants of a fury she doesn’t know what to do with.  

It is almost the bewitching hour, and Aurëwen only lies, refracted within her own storms, bleeding upon the cliffside from the ribs. She is agitated and irregular, already having strained her chords  (more suited for songs and sighs)  into raggedness with what’d been the most damnable words to ever leave her scarred lips.

Tears in the form of ruinous salt spilt from an equally-wrathful gaze, winking out and down into the sunsetland void below. Her marred crown felt like deadweight; too exhausted, burdened, to raise, to pull up over thin shoulders; to spare her comrade an ever-thankful glance.

And then, her anchor;
Her children. Their father. 
They needed to find another.

That thought and the promise of that is what makes her rise, a weary moon, and limp tenderly, listlessly back to their little rendezvous.

In her flight to meet her — escaped! she spit — remaker, it hadn’t occurred to her that her children might’ve seen it as a leave-taking of her own. It hadn’t occurred to her that they might’ve very well have come across Vercingetorix. It hadn’t occurred to her that a myriad of events might’ve come about while she’d been engaged in combat that’d been for the means of obliterating their desecrator from the earth.

It hadn’t occurred to her that the rendezvous would be without the voices of her son, her daughter, and Sanguinus. It hadn’t occurred to her that Fear would return, bright, alight within a body so hollowed - or that, if she took a breath, she'd known just who'd made off with them.

“Balaur? Belea?” was in a voice that was hoarse, breathless from snarling, shrieking; eyes unseeing, hooded and bleary, now incrementally tearful. Trying to scent them out from ribs that the botanist within her was too numbed to tend to. ...Either Sanguinus had made off with him from some other danger; or they’d hid from her; or she’d lost them in her previous distress as she’d gone from them.

Lost them, well and truly, and her chords hitched in a cursing, repentant, fright-stricken wail:

“Damnațiune—
Dragomir! Isilmë​!”