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

And here be Aphrodite, come again to favor the smoldering lock of her smith’s arms; and rather than return to the foam from whence she was born she wished to thaw here and beneath he who would remake her again and again and again and 
—she was no goddess. But she felt beautiful, here, in a way she had never let herself believe. 

Her heart was not immune, nevermind their amorous anguish; she would never entreat to the stygian in awaying with her; to meet amongst the mists and devour another the way she so aches for him to. Aurëwen was wild and fey and now sang with a siren’s longing laughter at her golem’s indulgence; a strangeling who could now no longer leave the forge of he before her; knowing that this deepening day might be their first, their last.

She could only guide him further into whatever depths these hours left them with.

The knowing of such made her tremble at his tongue, made her vague, visionary,  “Where else would you like to look?”  more a moan than musing enquiry, and yet a most rare smile of blest captivation now unsheathed upon slit lips, unbidden and rightly of Mahler’s own hand.  “Where else would you like to taste?”  Swan’s neck only lent further into those teeth, and the quivering within her thighs and now in her belly-breaths were twinned. Ever more kept to the earth, if only at the price of wearing away he who is responsible for her grounding ... but she would like to think that her priest is not hateful of this payment.

Perhaps he might favor it as she favors the plinth beneath them; in the way the siren drapes her arms about his heather shoulders and heaves him, headily, to rise above her as she rests upon the anvil below. Perhaps he might look into the argent glimmer of her ruined eyes and see that she would ... O!  “Bewitched me,”  she lulled with bitten lips, ever when she longed for his own,  “You have bewitched me—”  in body, in soul; lain and gentled, wax already, even as her words might have been better suited in the reverse: she did not yet know how much she herself, to Mahler’s consideration, seemed the enthraller.

And so the impish strain of her gaunt hips beckoned; the smile now ravening, rapturous as she nuzzled her desecrated temple into his wrist ... and then, for she could await no longer, bit in a kiss there with a sweetened sigh.

Would ever a name be given for the nature of sweet nothings between them?