Hushed Willows namárië!

overarching mood or w/e

So, you see?—
Mute masterpiece made in Medusan arms; 
the fée did not deserve to be soothed so any more than she did not deserve those who still wished to follow her founding of some paltry-seeming figment. To let her sorrowing sink down down down and be bathed in the bliss of another's benevolence would be to immerse herself further in shame, would it not? Porcelain, setting; a suffocation! but
her stilted figure remained rattled within the ambrosian's embrace. Very well might he away from her; and yet still did her slit lips part weakly, witheringly:  “I have gone from them,”  without a breath,  “and I must stay upon ze path that has been struck upon me.”  Lest her remaining by her daughter's side and straying from her son's further damn her to they she had laboured, still loved. Stay, or nay: Andraste had been convinced with catastrophe of either.
—you are not the vorst sort of mother.

She must be.

There were now no arms that the fairylight was meant to be cloistered within; even as the words wisped from waxen throat did she part from that which the yearling had offered, halfsight altogether staid and solemn. If he so wished to lie upon her a sentence of his own  (as that sealover had, as that spirequeen had), then the nightingale would not turn shorn cheek from him. If he so wished to shadow her beneath some raised, clawed gavel ... she would not resist. 

Reforged she may be;
but Andraste was nothing before another's anguish.