Moonspear ᵐᵗᵐᵖʰ envinyatar (mtr.)

Former name, former living;
each step nearer to she had the syren evidently weakening — all she knew was that whoever she had been before the skies cleaved her was now for-ever dashed from her soul into some awaiting antiquity. ... She could not return to the wailing wastrel she had become. There are some shreds that remain, or have ascended into unassuming significance  (yet to be exhumed!)  but she is reaching for the golem with a swan’s neck, again with the warbling whisper of his name, notwithstanding how thoroughly she trembles.

A deep line of muscle distinguishes stomach from hip; crescents beneath her cheek; an anchor of brawn fragility and as she leans into Mahler the priest then becomes her earth. The silver is limp in the shoulders, the ribs, and for a moment the only answer he is given is her only lament, longing: a heavy drawing of her shorn brow, the shuttering of halfsight; said cheek now pressed into heather velvet like some tattered flower meant to be dried. She wished to let herself falter for him entire; to lock herself away into the hewn and hammered arms once more. But greenseer— now his invalid that she was, too, her lips part in the weakest breath yet:

“Everywhere, I,”  breaths him deep into her blood, aquiver,  “Other... other-wheres, I ... I know ze feel of ... of ze sun,”  of him,  “but, further up, I ... I cannot feel, as if ... as if sensation has g-gone from me, and,”  she did not yet know; had not let the seething Lyra near as the vestiges of fade still murmured into her mind. Too taxed to surmount to anything but vaguery and she damns herself then again — unable to support his inspections, his enquiry! What had she done?

His presence heavy and yet, never unwelcome. With aching argent eyes did the boreal finally look to Mahler; cautioning of her own heart, ebbing, hastening with some tender, reaching otherness she wished not to dwell upon. Not at the present.
Yet still the maelstrom remains within her and though the stricken is lain — gleaming! ophelia! — she swoons, sight unfocusing for several heartbeats and the veiling of her lashes only refrained by the need to look upon him. She needs him. He is the earth and he had fashioned her now into compass; ever upwards; reminding her what is above her, below her. To the depths of her astral self Aurëwen-nevermore needs him, thanks him with a look for his giving her a moment to be restful upon him; upon his solemn sanctuary; upon his knowing her.

Her words have died a good death on a compassionate tongue; the death that, for what-ever reasoning, the heavens themselves had not been able to sunder her into. At this she is unsettled once more; cannot help the passage of her feathered brow into that flank; treacherous territory, where her wisping breaths were concerned.

For now, though, her gesture was for ... sorrowing. And she wonders if she should rise for him, so that he might better see, but— how to stand?— how to ... ?—
she shies, self-shamed, into his rested ribs as if she cannot survive his touch; her own.