Whitewater Gorge i wish i could rub the grief from you as if it were a smudge on the cheek

—and there it was: her name, his verdict, in the voice of reason she’s wished to hear never again, and also not;
but then her own voice was leaving her, carried back to him on the soft midsommar winds, over a frozen shoulder,

“Whether or not your General truly meant to bless those broods with their own peaks, I could not continue to idle at his notion of removing himself from ze lands for a drive — something that should, no, must be managed by subordinates alone.” Her worn chords struck low from a readied breast, and with them poised on her tongue, turned to the musiker to lance them within his own beliefs. 
“And with your numbers dwindling, I would not have ze remainder of ze pack lord over my children and I as if we were owned.”

Here it was she fell silent, solemn, to instead turn her blind eye his way; as if that would somehow deter those lilacs which flushed her with shame, with indignation,
but Aure rose, aquiver with the scorching revolution that’d needed to be smothered and stifled for so long.

Then, in her sorrows, she wanted to greet her once-aide, beg of his professions as she’d once begged of Dragomir’s own healer— but her moon-slim jaw bolted shut, her limbs tightened the way they oft did when preparing to bolt;
yet she held herself there, and after several, heavy hearbeats, began to... creep towards Mahler.
She couldn’t stop trembling from holding a world of others’ anguish; nevermind her own, and trying to keep herself afoot.

Her prints were featherlight, and unsure, and she moved in a wide crescent about him, for it was all her mind, her figure could do  (rather than run from him, from all of this melancholy as she so pined to.)