Whitefish River some unconscious stream of twisted logic

Claws at her eyes, nose, lips; holding her captive by the throat, dove’s breast; water in her lungs, her nose, in every part of her, winding through her, insidious—
And then pain, red and bright and hot, distorts the pale shadow that keeps her beneath the cavern’s currents, and it’s not the hymnal she hears but a scream, just as shrill and bright.

It lances through a forelimb, thin, deep, and the force of the collision and entanglement wrenches her shoulders; pulling Aure upon her side with hinds flickering, kicking at empty dark.
But then, she blinks, seven-several times over, wakefulness almost reluctant to arrive and take her from the tortures of her dreams. Then, breath spent, ragged:

“I-Isilmë—”
Her daughter’s name is uncertain on her tongue, a question, an assumption, as if even she isn’t sure that the miniature moon before her is realer than the one that ticks across the sky each night.
“Isi, Isi,” she whimpers, she warbles, her bottom lip quivering as the mist within her eyes began to clear. Almost.