Moonspear ᵐᵗᵐᵖʰ envinyatar (mtr.)

A feathering and faint was the hum to his words;
half-listening, absent in the waking dream of how effortless it might be, to smother him from nose to knee before devouring him in-between. This meanderance is the figment which makes her sights warble, dew-ish, as is the hesitation of tongue at her ear  (a blessed happening!)  and her shorn lips are numbed and mouthing  red raspberry  somnolent into the heather of his hide as he shifts beneath her in myriad manner.

The cluck in his ironwrought chords are rather against the weight of his eyes upon her silvered stormcloak and therein that touch of phantom’s simper hitches, unbidden. But then his words thrum through her and though the stricken longs for nothing more than to be lulled by his murmuring, as with before—
 
“Orders. An accord with ze queen,”
words breathed and dimmet, “to mentor her hatchlings,”  heavy-lashed eyes of lune upon the musiker’s evening features. She regarded him further with an inscrutable privacy, irregular to one such as she; known in the far-far-far away mists of those eyes.  “Ze storm chased me, when I meant to return.”  Finally:  “Now, I never may.”

He lie with her, still—
and the world is heady and whirling; the silver swoons and shivers; a reservation to her means to rise from the beauty of him; fluted limbs all aquiver as she heaves, achingly, into a stagnant sit. And so he lie beneath her, so much so as he did before and  “I was never meant to be a mother. Even ze heavens have met ze earth, all to tell me what I have known,”  her confessions, so cruelly convinced by her well-meant wrongdoings and now by this welting,  “To strike me from myself. Afar from all which an Aurëwen once tread. I am not she,”  every word so hushed; so muted; so seeking in their verity. 

And she steps from her soothsayer; a somber pirouette; 
“I,”  redwine tapestry cascading down jut shoulders,  “they have made as an Andraste.”  The heavens. The sword in the sky. The Fade. ... She cannot bear to be near he who has reached so into her hidden heart;
he must never know! and
he has thieved her! and
ruined brow finds limestone; restful. Forever to be without whelp, without whimsy of fond entreaties; all of her own machinations ... and that must be how it was always meant to be.
Yet, she is ever grounded by gargoyle; and yearns for how all that might have been righted had she met same-wise souls! How tethered she would have been!—

She does not deserve to look upon his person and yet ... she only allows a marred cheek to cant toward him; the one with the unseeing eye, from over the spire of a shoulder. He, who should not be here; he, who should be with his people! He is intolerable! He is imperfect! He is entirely illogical, here!

But he still makes her heart break in a way that is not quite breaking at all.