Northstar Vale i miss you in the dawn & most of all, your fingerprints, everywhere (mtr.)

"I seek to mend his marrow, meldonya. It will be here."
And then she cannot speak.

When her lashes unveiled, hauling the fine drapery up and over the glinting argents, they found those invidious amethysts and gazed without fear; without the vanity that comes from such gestures. Within her own lie a downy quiet, all at once pensive and listless, entire. The begrimed contempt of his voice to her seems to wreath about her throat, pressing a seething thumb to the windpipe ‒ it is through a somnolent stirring lower than her stannic heart that Aurëwen returns to the common speak to him:  "And I am no worthy of my son, with ze desolation which I have no right in feeling."  A lull.  "Yet ... I remain to dishonor his presence, and yours. To be so absent."

It was all she could say.

Her breath is shallow and she is voiceless once more against the laden virility of the gargoyle; still yet she feels no alarm. Not for the snarling fangs that wink from between repugnant and dark lips and oh, even his hatred would be welcome if only to reach for him. But her muted gaze flits, following his own, to where red waltzes out through the water, pigmenting the official seal of some soul cast asunder; she can sight no apparent bloodlet otherwise upon his person. 

"May I ask?"  Whom?  And if he would deny her even this ... this, she understood: after all, the silver herself had been the one to have rebelled against his basilisk; she, the one to spit such simmering words into and subsequently invite him to see the sweet son she did not deserve to have had. Her son, who lie abed, restful and also not, just as the mother who now was hollow of so much and only retained so little sensation left.

Eyes were gentled, wondering; hooded and void, though, as she waits without expectancy; situating herself further upon her elbows to meet that cheerless gaze. A flicker of constriction ebbs through the column of moonstone made flesh, unassuming—