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

He ends her, truly;
and cannot bring herself to comprehend how it all has come to this; her, taking him into her blood and marrow with tucked-away features embellished now with likewise incredulty. Dark lashes of that seeing eye flutters at the mere marvel of it; of the words that limn the ear that he nips and presses a promise in the same breath. Her heart shudders, stops; she had dreamed of what he might feel like, though  —  scarred and sacrilegious  —  but now, they had found their way back to each other in the worldsgloom. Time and time and time and time again.

“I wonder, then, that I should ... learn your tongue.”  Shying from him, perhaps unnecessarily; but she fears that Melkor might turn aside from the downy devotion that had come to glim halfsight. So she diverts herself, tremulous, and scythes soft through the tundrian's throat— cannot continue this way—
and eventually returns ardent gaze to the warlord once more; pearlmade claws rooting within frost, loam, moss. Wisping delicate, reaching for him before she can  (could not ever)  resist:  “I want us.”

Their springmade brood and to listen as they trilled in his tongue, hers; them, this, this, this—