Arrow Lake verräter

mahl really Did That huh

To sleep for centuries is what the silver wished for. Rising begged for a herculean brawn that waned so faintly within Aurëwen; mind asunder and heart aquiver. Unveiling the dark cradle of lashes was like hauling an anchor up ... and up ... and up ... and the only reprieve she’d ever and always find would be when she looked at her children, soul heaving. Every saddened part of her softened, to see Dragomir and Isilmë part of another the way ink blots parchment. She supposed she was the quill that’d half-written them to life.

But where was her missing inkwell? The one where, without whom, these cygnets would have never come to live?

Slumberous, coaxing melancholy welled up within her; and yet, the sight of her son and daughter,  so inconceivably inseperable, gave her that brawn she needed to heave herself upon her paws with breathy, worn resolve. With a delicate chirrup, she invited her sun-and-stars from the thicket; adamant to dwell away from beneath those spring arches.

A luxurious, languishing stretch eventually had the silver draped some ways away from the thicket. If her children did, indeed, follow, diligent-as-ever argent eyes would keep Isi and Drago in their sights. In the meanwhile, her tail feathered at her hocks, and her mind was as adrift as a ship without a horizon.

Aurëwen felt so quiet within herself these days that pondering anything but quests and forages seemed to strain what little ease she could find. Where was there to wander? She was surrounded by companions, her children, and now climbed steadily through Diaspora’s hierarchy. What was there to ever fret about? She’d learned of her follies, had taught herself well since, and continued to embark on a betterment of herself overall. What more was there to wish for?

With a remarkably soft, wavery whine, Aurëwen tucked her chin onto her paws.