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

"Th- ...thank you."
His lips made her so faint; but it was the words which made her so featherlight, and as he imprinted them into her skin her own breath went from her, unbidden, taken. And though she never thought to voice such graciousness:  "Thank you for seeing all of me."  As Mahler set in his teeth, kept his eyes from her — how glad she was!  (in such a breathless, benevolent manner)  — for would that they open, the priest might know now the indescribable enchantment upon the once-heiress’ pillaged features.

When last had another held such a faith in her as she once would for they? Looked upon her soul as they looked upon her face? ​By draping a fair limb to cradle his ribs, would he know the hum of this unimmune glass thing within her breast? Aurëwen, a low sigh of surrender swaying from deep in her figure, let her hewn brow rest against that dark jaw. 

With his devastation of her entire, it might have very well been a tremble of his name; and so, silver held the priest to her as if he were a precious breath for he was so
beautiful
and she does not think she has ever thought as much of another but she wants to devour him and she does in insatiably ravenous nips to that mouth. The pink nose dusting at the prominent feathering of his cheek-bones; torn lips trembling at his drawn brow and at the knit she finds there and finally pressing a kiss of her own to the corner of indomitable lips.

A timid laving at the line of his throat brought with it the rhythmic ebb of her gaunt form against his; more patient than their commencement as she made sure to work with the steadied waves that lapped at the altar; swaying his arms, sensual, slow.

For a moment, as she drew away to gaze with tendered abandon into his mauve face, airgetlám was foolishly, foolishly affrighted that he might not wish for her — would be warded from her shorn features, her gaunt figure, the coveted and voluptuous vitality she had ever been without. ... But then Aurëwen cloaked her half-sight once more with a shivering-out of her ruff; lent her crown back, and bared a long-throated fragility to the male before her.

Spectacle in itself of her own vulnerability and the trust therein for him to trace, too.

And yet her need was now not only of desolation, but sighing and seeking for him should he long for her so, too.  "I am here,"  was the whisper and his name; both entreaty again and now grace, for him and his sorrows and delicacy she now beheld of him; an almost reverent disbelief daubed upon her face. This was not fiction for the first time.