Sunbeam Lair ❝elyë lantanë melmessë sonen,❞

don't mind me just getting carried away-

And thus her passions were misunderstood!
Fondness, thought to be fury; ardency, thought to be anger. The mountainshard of his plea to listen stilts what-ever soft sounds had since wisped from throat; he parts, unsmothering. And as the musiker delves into his own agonies, wishes her believed temper away away away, her rubied brow ensnared in utter perplexation:  "Fight?"
Though enrage him it might, a second smile of this day arrives unbidden upon marred guise; disbelief; cannot take her adoring eyes from he before her as she slowly, solmenly shakes her head.

"No. No, it is not enough, Mahler. But, do not misunderstand,"  she breathes, beseeching that he might look upon her once more and see that the only torment was him — and that it is not indignation,  "I speak of figments. I speak of what, in your choice, may very well not come to pass. It hurts. I cannot bear this, though hold you I might. But I cannot burden you with blame, as well. So please,"  nearing, gently, gently,  "let me give you life. Let me love them,"  silvered tones,  "let me long for time spent with you. Let me give as only a mother may. Let us become better."  Faint, so faint she had become; how much more did he wish to unveil her? How much more did he wish to hear her wax comfort that she had weighed the gravity of his choice thus far and would, nonetheless how many a seed be sowed, she would not condemn him for it? She could scarce speak — but did he wish for some sonnet?

A fool she must be;
to look upon her bewitcher and whisper all things that may or not myriad come to pass.  "If this is right?"  There was the stardust within her head, yes, of soulmeld to ceremony and she cannot resist the laughter that leaves her; something whimsical and weary and wondering, entire:  "Is it right for one such as me to love you as I do? To love you, to know that I would perhaps be alone? To give you a brood that is of—? Heavens, you—"  barely a breath; brow furling with a frustration that would ne'er be fury,  "—would that I wish that I did not wish for more, if only ever to bring you some easement. But I know, I know that such is not so! And still, I— you are ze male who sends me into this madness. Do you not see? Do you not know how I wish I were not me, that I would not be so tormented?"

In body and in soul; in soul and in body; breathless;
"Tell me,"  chords a worn melody, low and patient,  "tell me, did it feel right to speak to me of such things that have so ailed you, always? Did it feel right to hold me? Be a part of me? Within?"  chesire and dimpling, if but for a heartbeat before once more she retreated to patient seriousness.  "Does our having children between us feel right? Having them flourish from my belly?"

Nevermind those he was now obligated to lie with! This would be theirs: Andraste neither blushed nor balked, here; only entreated that he see that the only rebellion within her against him was in keeping her weakened footing awares within his very presence.