Whitefish River And you better start swimmin' or you'll sink like a stone

After her visit to her son, Aurë had thought it best that she tote back whatever greenery had gone unfinished — to clean and store away for future use. Across her meandering, though, she spied the plush form of Speedy; and wondered whether she should disturb her rest or no.

But then, she couldn’t help the lance of emerald jaundice that pierced her breast as she eyed the henna herbalist; the one who had wept for her son where Aurëwen could not; the one who had remained his constant where Aurëwen could not. She was the one who seemed able to be all of these things and more and more — the mother that the silver had almost been ...or could never be.

Guilt at this, at all, burned at her lashes as she glared into the healer’s shadow; but Aurë managed to push a weary greeting through her constricted chords, brows drawn heavy against the balmy sun as she finally made her way over. “How... how have you been?” Perhaps it might have sounded kinder, had she known this she-wolf was a friend of Slavik’s.