Firestone Hot Springs he’s still leading me for

The look of longing, of being anywhere but here;
it clanged within the chasm’d cornerstone of Andraste’s very self; was was of the very few facets of essence that could be stricken out even by the cleaving skies. The voice, wisping, wishing, not at all petulant; the certain cant of that demure head, the eyes ... the eyes! Mouthless; meant entirely to wonder and ask after where he wished to return to, if ever he had resting place. But! O! This was—!

“Aeryn.”

Though this was no longer an owl-eyed bairn, this gentled darkling quivered quite the same as that child had, beneath the shadow of a willow-woman she'd yet to reach within her mind. Thusly to the fée, children were remembered; even to she who had forsaken herself from her own. Still ... soultreading that tattered, half-known cord of mothership, of that faraway mem'ry; Andraste let herself fall featherlight to the riverland loam; mimicry of when she had first sighted him with eyes that still saw all.

“I ... know your face,”  lips parting with weakened words,  “from ze Elysian willows.”  Thin ears flickered forth, rarity; wishing to soothe, not startle. And yet ... it must be him. It must—