The Wall you should have forgotten my name the day you heard it

Her rubied crown has come to reat upon the plush breadth that the brinewolf's chest has to offer; hearing his heart beating beneath her mouth and letting such stability soothe her. Mothwing ears tucked away into disheveled ruff; and when he enquires after her wellness, the rumbling tones threaten to lull her to slumber, nevermind at these very heights. ... But Andraste wills her shorn lips to move; if only to keep herself from swaying from him; if only to lie any of his murmuring doubts to some rest:  "Would you rather I lie to you, also?"

She does not know how she means them  —  or how their recipient will find them. Her despondent features are presented to him, however; heavy-lashed and sights more than likely a tad too unfocused for his own peace of mind. Without another word at the present, Andraste sighs into the nearness of who-ever her savior is dubbed and veils her fatigued eyes.