Sawtooth Spire the first time that i sought for grace

listened 2 this while writing

a plink of water upon her nose stirred the evermore-drowning child from her toilworn drowse. the murmur of her name woke her.
she lifted her head gently, heedless of her body’s want to lie still longer yet, blinking all gluey-lids and somnolence to regard the source of the shadow cast over her.
papa.
had he come to skewer her on his teeth for this piece de resistance disobedience? had she in some way manifested him from the fire and brimstone of inmost brokenheartedness? or had he most simply heard her choked misereres and bid her rescue?
no, he had not come to rescue her—not in time. she’d been able to do that on her own, and phaedra impressed that quiet dignity to her heart to try and replace the unplumbed depths of vulnerability and all her failings to interpret the importance of its presence.
it seemed her legs ached more upon awakening than after she'd dragged herself from the waters. when she strove to stand, they juddered and folded back under her as though she were a newly born fawn. she collapsed on herself with a shrill grunt and yip.
the eyes that had always been warm in their glances on mahler were frore now, and she turned her cheek away from him, withheld tears from the fear and panic she’d experienced struggling in that creek retting her eyes. 
”b—ba—" the second half of bad died in the back of her throat and she could not revive it. 
”phhhhh—ph … ph ..." but the name shattered in her mouth, sharp and cruel as glass. she wept inconsolably into her gathered legs. 
why was it so hard to do what came so easily to grown-ups? 
her tongue felt like a heavy stone in her mouth. she wanted to say words but they rattled in her mouth like broken teeth, or tumbled off the page like strewn dust after a sneeze.
the rabbitsoft summit of her shoulderblades quaked with a sob. 
if she truly cried as a result of fear, or if it was scooped from a deeper well of feeling ...
there was no answer for that.