Northstar Vale i miss you in the dawn & most of all, your fingerprints, everywhere (mtr.)

Oh—
he answers within the realms of his own accent, a mere duet of words basking in the hooded alchemy of amethyst eyes. Though Aurëwen nods, as she falters beneath the limpid, languid gleam she so nearly forgets what it is she nods to; she wouldn’t ever fathom the language by his ashlar tongue, but greeds mightily in hearing it again. Hearing him, and hearing him—

“An establishment of mine own, where ze waves kiss ze sea. Though a following for ze sake of upholding its foundations I am without, I ... I long for a realm of reason and of education.”  Shy, shorn cheek bedding into the crook of his heather elbow, now,  “Whatever ze world we live in is, there are many children. All ze more to teach, and to give our endless learnings to. Until I atone for ze wrong-doings I have had my own suffer through, I will never again birth another.”  And never again will I give myself so imprudently and without love!  Half-sight refractured; argent tempered despite such soft, somnolent words. Despite how confessional her hushed chords were, when such delectability had occured.

With a tender, tormented sigh, Aurëwen nudged her rubied, worn crown beneath the priests’ gnarled bough of limb — pressing a gentled and groaning gnaw into bicep — before finally rising from the waters. Anchored now into a narrow hip:  “My realm by ze sea, it ... no, it is my atonement. I would wish for ze nurturing of all who came there, as most seats do. New, old,”  but with weakening gall noted his mauve maw so near to waxen thighs,  “And yet ...”  and yet, each murmur of molten breath slowly, achingly made her purpose soot. Even as she considered such an ascent by the sea, her melted mind had her consider another — the dark mouth being there.

Not entirely a sexless ideal, then.
Heavens.

Spring ribs restful at his shaded shoulder; a breath meant to steady herself instead came out a little uneven. And so  (rather foolishly, perhaps)  the silver let her own eyes veil close. Turned her once-lovely features from Mahler; tried to speak.  “I am unsure of when such a figment will ... will come to fruition. But I know that it is mine.” 

Hers — like the sounds she made him make because of what she did to him yes, his moans were hers and
he was hers and she his and her muse, in the elysian gallery of her he was her muse and
hers, hers! and
another insects’ trill in the same shivering breath. 

“I swear myself to it,”  she then tried — but it was with a tongue laden with that same, sudden, shy voicelessness.  “I ...”