Whitefish River this is how we heal:

@Bercingetorix. Week of the 27th
lmk if the date needs changing ❤️ vague

When she wasn’t cloistered away with her daughter, or mooning after Kaisteloki’s impermissible garden, the silver could be found here.

Here, in this cave;
It wasn’t the cave that Tux had brought her to; it wasn’t cave in which her own hunter had made them his conquest; it wasn’t the cave of stars — as if the world had kept them stilled, suspended. Waiting. It wasn’t the one that she’d wished to show her beloved, and then their children, once upon a dream. But it was dream wouldn’t ever come to fruition, now; not when Silvertip’s menagerie had been so irrevocably blighted.

These musings had murmured beneath the shadows of slumber and vigilance alike; if she could never bring her loves to that place as a gift for their arrivals into her heart, then may no wanderer find wonder there.

As Aurëwen awoke from another of her fitful reposes, it was to the shifting amber of early evening. With bleary wakefulness followed an inscrutable, sleepy compulsion; to lean against the dull quartz mouth and send out an airy, gentled beckon for Verx.

And whenever he arrived, she strode for him through the sun drenched grasses, staggering a little in her sleepiness. Aure was wordless, faltering—until she murmured a sand-soughing “...Trikova,” and lifting a  (tentative)  pink nose, wishing to touch some inked place upon his broad chest.
Tentative, because the three of them were so worn, and she didn’t quite know when to hold either of them, much less what to say.

But perhaps being here and there for another would be more of a balm than any words that could be bartered.