Whitewater Gorge thy waters rise

me, knowing damn well i shouldn’t be joining more threads against my better judgment
since classes have started but marching my ass on in & Doing It Anyways

As the early harvest snuck its burnished, browning leaves into late summertide, Aurëwen  (sat near such a treacherous ledge)  watched as her mourner swept low in the midday skies, and wondered why, in all heavens, had she been set with a dove, of all familiars. They were peaceable creatures, meant to bring easement — why could she not have been a falconer, then? Surely she would have been given a fate with a feathered-one who was just as callous as she’d begun to feel.

Somewhere within herself, faint and eternally forthright, she ... knew the answer as to why. But, Aegelius was rung so in sun’s light that the silver must shy her eyes; casting them down and away from the rumbling waters, just as glimmering.

With Egg’s whistle of wings, though, the figure of another female forms; cloaked in a white, just as the druid herself. And yet where Aurëwen’s is a wisping cold reminiscent of frosted spires, the kindly vagrant before her is draped in a finery of smothered warmth that bespoke restful places. 

Whoever she was, she was hearth, entire, and the herbalist could only breathe a gentled  “Mára rë,”  through the ebbing ache in her glass-metal heart, argent half-sight pensive as ever.