Whitefish River but the hearts of small children are delicate organs

“My haven told of it as silmaril,”  the herbalist mused, eyes smarting a bit at particularly brilliant flecks.  “But, I believe in ze common tongue, it is called a moonstone. I found it in a quarry of them. Troves of them; like a little moon in ze earth.”  Her halfsight lingered upon the glimmering scale of earth, before flitting to wonder as to Dragomir’s countenance.  “Some of our tenants said ze moon protects those who travel in ze night. Others think that ze shine inside is a living spirit, or a gem within ze brow of their deity, or ... or, that it brings clairvoyance to ze beholder. Some dare to not bring it out into ze day at all, for fear of weakening ze energy within. All assumed that stones such as these were made from ze light of ze lune.”  Eyes lingered on the pink nose, before sweeping back down to the gem in question.  “What do you think, my dragon?”

Did he agree with anything that she’d told him? Aurëwen scooched a bit nearer to the curious thing and son upon her belly, her own blushed nose wriggling in thought; ears pressing forward, rare that they did. Remembered the time when her dragon was just a hatchling, practically, nibbling at her belly; legs stretching like wings; leaving her to wonder what myths he was living away in his mind.

Perhaps that had been why she had slept as nearly as much her Dragomir had — to try and meet him through the realms of their dreams. She wished she knew if they ever had ... her tail feathered, and Aurë returned from her momentary reverie with a quiet try at a smile.