Firefly Glen vive, vivio, vivira

Any ill-will that Aurëwen had toted along this early morn was one that’d taken up an adamant seat within her breast; cinching a heart that ached, festering within a mind that believed it deserves all ire that had come in retaliations of contemptful glances and embittered words. And so it was she’d wandered here, working the last of the weeks’ sickness — faltering, faint in scent, a wisp — only to let an emotional upset roost in the eyrie’d it been in.

The silver lifted her marred crown, shifting her figure from where it lay within the shade and instead into the incremental gleam of morning ...and, upon her traipse through the glen, eventually froze like the frosts of her ancestral crownlands when she sighted the smudge of night emerging far before her.

...Dragă?
Had his hunt for avengment taken him south, as her own for blacktail had? ...Should she
approach him?—

—No, because she shivered, for once raw at the longing to and No because it... was not he who she loved, but
someone else.

Where once her ruff wouldn’t have gone awry without her permission, now it shook itself to life when the dark arriver grew and grew and made itself known; and all she could do was lower her shorn façade and scrutinize the entrance in broad daylight. Wary.