Whitefish River but the hearts of small children are delicate organs

Airgetlám hummed in consideration, fatigued eyes crescenting, “You could say so. I suppose our tenant must have digested a ... a natural poison, one whose make I cannot recall. However—” she dove into her recollection, speaking both delicately and practically of how the patient had writhed, clawing at the throat, frothing, before the assembled greenseers and Aurëwen herself could figure what the matter was. Two had held the ailing vagrant down, and Drago’s mother had been the one to  (with paws as little as hers, still were)  cast a bezoar down their wards’ throat.

His fit had subsided ... eventually. “It was a very rattling experience, nevermind that I was some moons into my instruction. But more than anything, my dragon, that was ze day I came to understand how I could be there for others. Be there for them in a way that doesn’t require brawn ... of ze body, at least.” With another flicker of lashes, Aurëwen quieted once more; and seemed as if she’d been more content than ever to sungaze into the fire-ivy of her son’s thicket.

But then, she started with a little shiver, scarred lips parting as if to bring forth words. None came from her chords, though, except an absent  “And, speaking of stones—”  and instead she wisped a few breaths, squirmed back upon her belly, and reached for the gatherings she’d brought along.  (It still hadn’t occurred to her that she never expressed, exactly, what a bezoar was, not its relation to stones. Forgetful, she.)

In the moment that followed, she clutched her earth-grown tomes to her breast; corners of her thin mouth quirked in ever-mischief. ...And then, with the fragility that comes with well-thought care, she unwound the wrappings again and again, until finally — she produced the glimmering moonstone that’d been hidden within.

Wordlessly, still impish, albeit rather gentled, now, Aurëwen proffered it towards her son with a nudge of a nose pinker than his.