Northstar Vale a grin as sharp as a knife (mtr.)

Hesitance that comes with honesty  —  is a small fare to pay for this, for his touch, the lay of his lips against her, the press of them together like molten stars, nevermind all chances of, perhaps, never finding another again. Though Andraste understands nigh nothing of the warlord, the wash of himself overwhelming her guard, cascading over the levee, it is sweet; saccharine, like his endearment. Soothing; everything; until his heft of sigh parts them from another and the startled lack of touch has her breath rasping. Irregular heart, galvanizing without her own accord; vessel, ardor-limned—
“I wish to be worthy, with you,”  Undómiel whispers, breathy and thin with thrill; swiveling fluted neck to sculpt her rubied brow along his own. “Better, with you,”  (please, make that be okay…)  “feel your stories. Feel you.”

Hurting heart, yes; unpromised, 'til she herself can conjure up a final choice of all this. She speaks with the insistence of how Melkor weaves into her and takes root in a way she did not think possible; wars again with herself, as once she had upon their shared eve. But it was in remaining apart of a thrashing will to flurry upon him with fanged kisses; to nip at his nose; to continue to gaze into the gelid eyes and wonder if ... he is willing to try.