Whitefish River some unconscious stream of twisted logic

Bracken? That wouldn’t do. After a pale shake had rattled it's way through her skull, Aurëwen turned back to her shrike with moss and yarrow — and at the words, gave a shameful pause. Instead of informing them of what she planned and tucking them away safely, she’d ran off to meet her desecrator in battle. Like a fool.

It didn’t matter if she knew that mishap was mostly forgiven  (suspected it was not),  it was still one of the many actions which the silver blamed herself for how so many things had turned out as they now were. Her boy was immobile; her girl was furious; and she had come to feel that she could not speak in the way she’d like to.

But Aure only canted her head for the pale girl to follow, further into the quartz recesses of the caverns; and it was only when she’d sat them down by the still sources of cold-clear water that her answer came:

“He bit my face up, again, moons ago. Bit my eye.” She paused, daubing a wad of moss, then spoke around it, “Ze day that I left you was ze day we’re I threw him from ze Plataeu’s edge. ...I had help.” Tugging the natural stopper back up, she chirruped for her shrike to Open, and then went about cleaning and pressing against bloodflow, quiet, pensive.