Moonspear ᵐᵗᵐᵖʰ antúlien

  14th September.  Awakens from *metamorphic coma. Others/all are welcome. (Noted references of Isilmë, Dragomir, and @Mahler.)
LOCATION

info

  Nerve damage to upper spinal cord, irregular heart patterns, sleep disturbances, *personality shift, slight memory problems, minor muscle tremors, slight loss of hearing.

Avinimnë lanye.

In the twilit hall, the silver had known the static discharges of the thinning gale; had shared in its drop of pressure and the cleaving of the heavens, even as those gilded arms went reaching for her; a thunder’s rite searing up the lean roping of her spine. The quiet thereafter, though? That which had pressed petrichor palm to her mouth, cloaked her chords by iron curtain? It was ... unknown.

It is as unknowable as her resting place in mountain shades; as unknowable as all the syndrome in aftermath: from the mere quivering of the claws or a flick of the wrist to keen compulsion that will hold her, in time to come, so promptly.

Aurëwen hehtanë.
Remembrance was but a figment, now. But her mind has forever been a labyrinth and O!— within it, is time not irregular myriad?
As it will be, in the fade she has searched for all that she cannot name— and the shining thread has frayed. She is both Orpheus and the fated voice that beckons unto his ear; she is the unendingly wrathful Θevrumineś and the fierce, forging Theseus; what-ever memory is left is the Sphinx and the chimera and should she get too near the waxen remnants of her mind will away.
But— baby’s breath, a priest’s plaint, and glorious, glorious green is what she is shown— shifting and bleary in its order but shown in a manner that her soul might know.

Aurëwen maksine.
As is Dædalus’ law, notwithstanding mortal-days, she may have very well wandered for an age. Past afterimages of her sun-and-stars and beneath her spires and into the Undying waters; altarless, she regards all with a hesitance, a rootless forgiveness but
how was she to know of all this?

Sillumello, nie karienna ni.
She does not, for she has fallen so far from herself;
Nameless and never again a mother. And so she wanders, crocus-throated and asphodel-hide ever patient for the circled salt upon the eye; for that dewpoint to linger in the lash. Her hurts are but pomegranate, stained again, again; her eye now in the crone of three’s hold, scoured by stygian scythe itself. And though harvest is here, Aḯdēs is not.
She is nameless and yet assumes to be her own Kerberos.

Ló χīþilōmē, namárië súle nányë.
And though the fade keeps her from prompt wakefulness, so it was that the fell @Hydra and those gathered know her to still yet live.