Phantom Hollow saviguk ❄

Aquiver became the hen's voice;
no sooner did the feathered inquire after her being mere vision could Andraste bring forth a confident answer. She may as very well be: a knived spectacle, a willow-wisp, ever-thin to the bone and a faraway gleam in halfglimmer sights. She felt so ... stricken from herself, so half-listened towards, and yet the fée bore no admonishment within her at it all.

"Those within my weald are warm with ze blood in their veins,"  came her own musings, finally looking to the duck alongside.  "I ... suspect my own runs as such."  And perhaps still they might be follies, following the most foolish of them all. She does not know that she deserves it, these ... yearnings; the youth she can never again bear.  "I suspect there might be none, at all."  Yet still there was now a meaning she strove for that made surer the breath in her lungs; masses that now wished to run after the fairylight into a figment nigh possible.

And a male who had become the beat of her heart, entire.