Silvertip Mountain sometimes it makes me wonder why i even bring the thunder

last.

’Does he breathe?’

As Vercingetorix bent to check to affirm, the silver wanted to turn upon the mauve woman and wail and spit in a mother’s frantic hysterics — but then her beloved rose once more, and turned to her with such a silver-hot anguish that it richocheted from the seat of his eyes and returned into her own.

She said nothing; not at he spoke, and it was her turn to dive, to hover with care over their broken son. With featherlight paws and the faintest of touches, she so-gently canted Dragomir’s skull back to affirm this for herself — felt the relaxed muscles of his throat, his figure, as she carefully inspected to see that his tongue wasn’t blocking the airway. As his father had, the herbalist too felt a flutter of breath upon her cheek, the ebb of a pulse... 

“He breathes,” Aure muttered, coming back to stand once more. And he is broken in more places that I can see, can count.
The shame, the loathing, the self-blame — it would all come later.
But for now she much favored dragă’s sentiment towards Ira’s suggestion.

Where her heart stopped beating that day, bleeding as it always had, the clock could only tick and the rain could only fall.
If he breathes, then he will live.
​He must.