Hushed Willows namárië!

Was it not anything but a crime? Nevermind the love amongst each that had become so forever fragile? The foundations of faith, of trust that had become so thoroughly fractured?  You are a son, she wished to argue into the down of Séamus' ruff.  Sons are meant to leave their mothers.  She wished, even, to let her lips part so that she might breathe of her dragon's tale, her shrike's endeavors  —  but she was Aurëwen, the mother no more.

And it was not her tale to tell.

So, instead, the fée surrenders to the great, fawndyed heft of the yearling that is, for now, an anchor.  "My Court,"  weak murmurings, now,  "lies not so far from here,"  the words a bit dumb and muted and lisping as she is half-fallen from herself. Shorn brow pressed into the stout shoulder — or, what she can reach of it — as her tongue struggles to spin forth better meaning.  "Away with me."

And perhaps that was all there was needed to say, really; lips numb and heavy with old, spent sorrows.