Fox's Glade someone only you could want

she wanted to walk away; a violin-sob in her ears as wren's voice threatened to dip and blur. why had germanicus told them? why had he ripped away the final vestige of what she had built to hide her basest shame? a breath, drawn; held; silvertongue upon the verge of sending wren truly away, and walling herself behind swiftly built ice-blocks until the slow, tiny hope inside her veins died a hypothermic death. night swept down upon them and silvertongue was carried away from the beginning foundations of that wall upon the deluge of admission, a tale so horrible as to render her own somehow reframed in the end — and in that end, silvertongue was shaking at the end of it, eyes wide and wet and her entire frame astir with this tremulous violent rush of so many untranslatable things; the language of two women who have reached a place where words no longer fit and they must move to another way. her paw moved hesitantly, and then out, and finally she placed it into that of the creekwolf with a slow exhale that shuddered as if it were a tattered ribbon upon a sweetwater breeze.