Firefly Glen vive, vivio, vivira

“I’m not sure, really. I was three moons.”
In her dimmening mind, Aure supposes that she must’ve done something to deserve these scars, though, hadn’t she? Just as she deserved every spitfire reminder in the form of reproachful words and measures. For why else had her evening terrors come again to leave her lungs without breath with an aching throat come dawn? 

The strider might've snarled at such a blatant enquiry — might have spit her own fire, seeing as her son was a dragon in his own right, as was the stormborn father. But there was no flame left within Aurëwen; it’d all gone out the eve that she and her brother had been drowned. Any other aspect of flame so bright it burned cold was a figment to her character that only came ...once in a fervent while. 

And even then, there’d not been a flicker.

She peered up at the larger, inked female with her still-seeing eye nearly as listless as her left; an inscrutable frown tugging at the corners of tissuey lips. At this point, with all the scorn that she believed she did deserve — could she possibly say one right thing, anymore? 

“...I am Aurëwen.” And then her figure cinched; ears casting away, should this harpy hiss at her, too.