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

will tweak a sentence later if drago reveals anything before this

It was in the quiet of her thoughts which Aurëwen’s eyes would feel utterly exhausted; could feel the fatigue, rooted, tugging at the muscle lain along the cusp of her sockets; coaxing at pale lids to lie heavy upon her cheekbones. But she blinked seven-several times in order to clutch at Speedy’s words, an old, familiar notch settling betwixt red-hewn brows.  “...I try to believe that our son— that his capture, his torture may have very well happened when we lived amongst ze mountains. That he could have still been on his lonesome; could have been taken from us, all ze same.”  There was a telling lack of censorship with which the she-wolf spoke of the horrors she could only imagine her child had faced. ...Not that the druid knew of the means which he had been taken by.

But that was another story — one which Aurë wasn’t sure she’d ever retell again. Yet, she sat, too, reclining with weary care.  “I cannot help but blame myself. My riddled mine also believes that my fault lies with what happened. ...Before we were upon ze coast, my children and I lived in Diaspora; and, well... not even two weeks from their birth, I began to step away from them.”  Ears cast away, but she held Speedy’s gaze; her own as bright and piercing as quartz.

“When we truly left that claim, our children were... terribly angry with us. And how could they not be? In my case, I was absent. There for them, yes, but... absent. Drifting, without thought, logic. Practicality. And our son, he... he wished for time to himself.” She would not reveal Vercingetorix’s part of that story; it was his to tell, and there was still some respect there for the father of her children. Tedious, but ... there, all the same.

A pale shiver went through her, and Aurë gave herself a meager shake, continuing, “It was ze last thing he said to me. And then we could not find him.”  Another shiver went through her, but the she-wolf only lifted a riddled chin.  “And now, here, I am not so sure how I can be strong for him. ...That is my shame, as the mother I cannot be. I can only advise others to eat plants like sheep,”  she rasped, a pained, faltering curl to her lips. With a mortified little hiccup, “I feel too much, and think so little.” With everything, right from ze very start!—