Whitewater Gorge i wish i could rub the grief from you as if it were a smudge on the cheek

To say that Aurëwen was knowledgeable of her consideration for the mishaps of others through her own wishes was... an understatement. Or, perhaps she was knowing of it, but it’d become such an absent, albeit instilled habit that she thought nothing of it. Perhaps even she might remain unknowing of this soul-sacrificial trait til the end of her days.

The fervent light she spied in Mahler’s eyes was another thing of itself entirely—but then, he’d helped to raise her brood alongside their father and the rest of Diaspora, for a time. It brought a flush of humility beneath her ivory hide; and his words likewise coaxed an imperceptible tug to a corner of her scarred lips. 
“A day, or two, then,” she decided with him, not entirely without humor. Her snowy, shorn snout swiveled from the drags of his stature, and instead pointed northerlies, in the gist of the way she’d came. “Just follow ze river by ze star, and straight on to morning.”

There is a minute part within her that wishes to stay here; to remain with one of the few who seem to truly understand her; to keep herself shrouded in his rigid depths, and him, too ...but she eventually made to rise from his embrace. “I will let them know.”

Another of their many lulls fell between them, and in it, Aure took the moment to brush a mere kiss of parting  (of comfort, of well-wishing)  upon what part of the musiker she could reach—the cheekbone, barely, being so nearly diminutive as she. How else was she to convey her thanks?