Hushed Willows namárië!

“She whelped my brood,”
sore eyes crescenting beneath the glimmer of tears that refused to fall from the cusps of dark lashes; looking up up up to the Elysian who had come to anguish alongside.  “That eve was ze last ...”  hitched breaths, low chords,  “ze last time I had known her,”  gathering feathersoft paws beneath her breast to heave herself from the burial mound; to situate herself apart, so that this kith of the willow-warden might come nearer. Surely still she had no right in being here— at the fallen place of this impressive soul who—

The boreal silver gave an imperceptible shiver of shorn crown, looking from the bones of his mother and instead upon the creamed yearling; looming, large. She longs to ask who he is, but perhaps that doesn’t matter at the present. The sorrowful sweetness in his previous plea seemed to be enough to rein her own laments into shallow breathings. 

She wonders if, in this moment, he longs for solidarity and warmth in the same impossible measures that half of her does. She supplies nothing to the aching chorus of questions he might have, though, and eventually returns halfsight to the entwined wives beneath them.