Whitefish River some unconscious stream of twisted logic

“Vá caruvalwë!”

The shriek, strident and evoking and rebellion, ricocheted back to the thrashing mother from sending the quartz into quivers all about. Aurëwen clawed towards the glimmering, indifferent canopy, eyes wakeful and open but unseeing — misted by childhood chimera.

A flush of froth dribbled from the corners of her scarred lips, bubbling up and trickling down whet, tear-stained cheeks to fade into the doe-plush fur about her ear. Her breath came in incessant, gagging wails, and she could be found on her back, writhing and stiffening at merciless intervals; clawing at the stone and reaching towards quartz stalactites; pushing at someone who wasn’t there. Someone who she’d thrown from that Plateau. Someone who she’s prayed had rotted at its rocks ever since.

The silver sputtered, scarred face a howling mask of horror and fury, breaths coming fast in her ivory breast; and for a few pattering heartbeats, she... stilled.

But then there was water, there was water in her lungs again; and with another thrash, another whimper, her night-terrors resumed.

All that arced from her in a heaving squall was “Áva mittanya me! L-lá!”