Moonspear ᵐᵗᵐᵖʰ dornröschen (mtr.)

Admonishment!
and she might never know the meaning beneath them as he is of her. She longs to know what he means, what questions he asks of her; what small things he speaks in the seclusion of himself. But his chords were rough-hewn, and she too is adamant in her endeavor, and, for now, this is all that matters; not the fracturing of the world, nor her being affrighted for him, not yet, not yet— Andraste shifts closer, all elfin simpers to touch her lips to that dusked nose with some half-innocence. It is all she can do to suppress the private lilt that swells within the hold of marred lips.

The silver lingers as such, until she tasted his foreign instruction.
“Ich ...” she intones, delicately, haltingly; halfsight alighting upon that dark mouth that is begging to be bitten. “Ich werde ...”  almost!— “Ich werde dich sehr.”  Perched over Mahler’s hidden heart with such enquirement, such insistence! Ignorant to this moment! Had she the faintest inkling that which she has uttered, she might have quailed entirely.
And perhaps not.
“Ich werde dich ... sehr verm- vermisten.”
And perhaps still more favorable would any other but she would be; any she-wolf who was not the somnolent ophelia draped upon the anvil that was the General; any soul who would better court his favor; any mother who had not had the sorrows struck from their soul; any she-wolf who had not thusly made herself irrevocably undesirable; any Diasporan would have more significance in his militant life, and ...
she finally presses lips to stoneflower; correction:  “Vermissen.”

Ever southern did her enquiring kisses tread, thereafter; 
inaugurating with  Ich werde dich  and soft swan songs of the words he proffered to her.  I will miss your eyes, and—  “Ich werde dich Sti.. Stimme vermissen,”  she had whispered to the pale bit of throat; presently, now at his sternum, and the scars there, the stricken supposes how much she might be mistaking his mothertongue. Still: Andraste listens through the echoing of deep dawn for the pulsating of his own soul; for the sound of his blood through the hallways of his body. For the muscular thrumming of interwoven arteries, centermost: a tender touch to each wound of the world.

All of this, she traversed with gentle mouthings and infuriatingly tender kisses; 
the deep line of musculature that bound sternum to stomach; laving, featherlight upon the inked lock of hipbone; and so her confessions went a-murmur. Should Mahler dare look, there be the stormcloak; weaving upon the porcelain musculature. He would know her studious and soulful eyes, unveiled from dark cusp of lashes; a wondering hesitance, too. For if he would not gather her to him—

That fragrence he hummed so ardently for was now rather out of reach. But she would only go further if the musiker wished her musings there.