Whitefish River our arms will bandage.

"No."
The word was tugged from her; from between fangs of a jaw set so soundly that a muscle flickered somewhere within. No, they couldn't do anything but wait — and Aure detested it as much as her shrike, as much as the father of the family must, too. Her irritance at the aspect of being rendered so helpless only furthered her tail to flick, immensly discontent with the way things now were.

After several moments' lapse, though, there was a tentative suggestion of, "But, when he wakes" — and her son would awaken, by thunder — "his mind can be strengthened. Stories, lessons, I assume, until strength returns to him." Otherwise, the silver truly had no knowing of just what to do for her child; both her children, really. There was some understanding of need to be their pillar, but, how? How could she manage to be such, when... when...?

Everything that she'd summed up and apologized and appealed for before Drago's capture came back in a rush, as if she'd not repented for her wrongdoings at all; and suddenly, she felt less than half the mother she'd ought to be in the first place. Could've, should've been. Aure rose to her paws, then, ears casting back into her wisping ruff as she looked over her bright daughter with a dimming countenance, unsure. I don't deserve to be in her presence. No. Not yet, not yet...

"Isi," the herbalist began, but pulled her scarred lip beneath a tooth; an ear flicking sullenly. "Try to sleep some, míriel. We must have ze energy, for when your brother awakes." After another pause, she took a hesitant step forth, as if wishing to kiss her daighter's brow... but thought better of it, and instead murmured a quiet, "...Noapte buna."