Phantom Hollow saviguk ❄

um im terrible & forgot all abt this-

When she had been Aurëwen, to lament had been a means of ravaging her entire figure and a soul that would forever feel everything and too much, too much;
now, it arrived and departed in flushes and fades, not unlike the sun seen through these very trees or the encumbering season of harvest itself; not unlike how she blinked, unseeing, as of late. Grief was a reaching thing, towards her person with all intent to hold her to its clammy breast and envelop her as before. It reached her, yes; it also did not. She does not know—
but again she has parted from her Weald, if only to fill her belly for the wolves who waifed therein.

She was but a servant to her people, all;
how had that been such a ghastly thing to misunderstand?

Grief, what-ever it is, is acknowledged with a slim sigh of narrow shoulders, and so it departs — just as the stricken raises rubied crown to note another spectre. Small, as she. Adrift, as she.

Andraste chirrups; hushed.