Northstar Vale the tones of your flesh i tempered with pandyssian chalk

Necromancer that is he, breathing into her deadened heart; it is his reasoning that reanimates the glimmer gone too early from aching eyes. That he did not slight her for the very air that filled her faltered lungs, scorn these unshed, too-many tears  —  “oh, Melkor,”  —  she steps nearer, questing the taut, thoughtful guuse with the muffled expression of those half-dead eyes.  “I fear I have been so blind to it without you.”  Nevermind their claim of another;
for what counsel she had not found in the presence of her dear cousin  (and would never blame the argent for it)  was instead known here; here, with her lover who was not only lover but ever-faithful friend and confidant. She had left Hephaestus' forge, well and woeful, and now stood in favor for the stygian concoction of his father's underworld. Not Aphrodite, then;
she sighs, the delicacy returning to her once-lovely features; it is clear. It is fractured and swept away. She is rid of it, from her soul, from heart, and on a sifting exhale,
Mahler is let go.

And then there is only this, them; suppliant to each other and the primal imperative to touch again. 

Fairylight reaches for the woad of him as he continues; marred features nestled into the down of frostspun ruff upon breast; lulled into such soothing that when she hears the words he has to say, she does not deny it. Only quivers against the sculpture of him, melding ever into the Valitúrë,  “Though I must let Time mend me,”  murmuring unbidden and coaxed by his regard,  “would you like to have it?”  
finally, finally peeking up at him from where her rubied crown is set into his breast; breath soft upon his throat.