Moonspear ᵐᵗᵐᵖʰ antúlien

tiny post, brain is fried 

An imperious hydra; inquisitive hatchlings; her leige; her students;
there is no sky above her and she knows that the dawn stars are mouthless; for now, the moon has gone. Yet she does not know the tending of that seething sister, three days past; knows not of the arrival of that herbalist who holds her heart; he who she has not even let herself call for, be called for. She is the only of those gathered  (before and now)  who has not seen her spine. There is no telling that she ever will; but the agony is deep and slumbering.

In this manner Andraste wakes; minding what is so high above her head and favoring it so surely rather than all below-heavens.

There is no personal recollection of being struck down; only the vestiges of returning to rivers, to ... for ... whom? Some urgency. Shorn brow knits, a grimace kneading the porcelain planes into hazy perplexity. She should not be here, she thinks; she should be elsewhere, she feels; wonders. Her first words on a new tongue are weak:

"F ... forgive me."
She could not ever.