Whitefish River this is how we heal:

In a voice gentle and weary and wisping: “He needs light, dragă. He needs to heal beneath ze sun, so there is warmth in his bones,” not a note of petulance to be found in her own helpless exasperation: thin shoulders wilting, riddled crown lolling on a thinner neck. And then, she suddenly detested the one they conversed before, “they cannot keep him in their caves,” shearing a scathing, frigid glower to all those unassuming, refracted, glimmering quartz cusps. “They cannot.”

But what sway did she hold in Kaisteloki, to change what the riverlands’ herbalists did here? All the silver had proven thus far was that she was a petrified, ungovernable mother — and so her grievances sifted into her eyes in the form of furious tears. When she spoke once more, still turned from Verx’s eyes, her chords were choked, albeit low, quiet. 

“It will take a moon for his body to realign,” an absent, erratic shiver ebbing through her once, twice, “and another, and perhaps another, when he has ze strength to walk, to—” before settling on the faintest quivers to ruffle her pale hide, “to return to what he adores doing. ...All we can do is wait. Wait, and guide him. Guide ourselves.” And even then, there was no telling how Dragomir would metamorphosed.

A shivery, thin breath had the silver returning her attentions to her inked guardian, eyes gleaming and wide as moonstones set into her scarred face. “Dragă,” Aure began — but her throat constricted, cutting off everything she didn’t know to say. So she sat there, foolishly inarticulate, and only looked from him once more.