Wapun Meadow why does the sun go on shining?

The melancholia which Mahler had discovered the silver in the other day had since become both faint and thorough. This despondent happening was, much to Aure’s own chagrin, entirely unpredictable; it skulked through her at the most unoppertune moments, and tended to rupture whatever inward ease felt with her children, entirely at its own will. So when it tugged her from her thicket at deep twilight, her twin was there in her stead.

Rather than proclaim such towards her Diasporian peers, Aurëwen favored to keep these personal tidings to herself — aside from Mahler, she suposses. Tonight, she drifted from the mountain, like one of the weary, white-as-wax maids from evening fables whispered to once-whelp ears. Tonight, she was simply Aure; not the unwavering, unaffected guise of a gepenste she’d like Diaspora to believe.

All at once she felt so slumberous, listless, and inconceivably aware of everything all about her. Her own stept was a shamble at its peak, and her petite-pale figure waded through the meadow’s unconquerable flora. There was the spring-softened patch where she’d met Indra, and almost died twice from the she-wolf’s  ( albeit harmless )  instigations. ...There was the bed where dragostea had accosted her, and had been the last moment they’d truly spoken, looked at another.

She’d forgiven Indra. She held no fury for Verx— not really. But she missed them both, for sorely, entirely different reasons.

A rustle and sigh drew her from her hazy, moseying mind, and her coltish legs drew her still towards the origin of that sound. It wasn’t long before she was crescenting over a she-wolf  ( well, a resemblance of one )  all worn and seemingly wasting away. Silvered brows knit together,  tail beginning to feather with a bit offretting, Aurëwen gave a soft, hesitant chirrup to coax the fallen to wakefulness.