Northstar Vale & prayer-pale stars that pass the drowsing-incensed hymns (mtr.)

It is not ire that ignites the skin beneath feathered hide; that petrifies her where she lie before her warrior and she wilts; she wilts and it does not occur to her that she could rise, could brandish her fangs and her ruff and hold herself o’er him, above him. It does not occur to that she has such a right, that as Undómiel she has every right to quell him, no matter the further rightness of his words and yet and yet and yet she shivers with
shame—
blistering, unforgiving, molten shame that touches tears anew and draws her knees to her belly as she listens to the lull between his first response  –  enough for the second to scathe skin raw with what has embedded itself as rueful repulsion, not ever at him; not at his scolding sensibilities. It was for her own taking; and though there seems to be some bracing for disfavor in his telling, that which reigns now o’er Andraste is disgust for no other soul within vicinity but herself.

Mate; his enquiry a near mockery to affrighted ears;
“I want your name,”  she bleats, a bit brokenly, before she can blush with the ludicracy of her longing and loathing of herself; how, only heartbeats from here, she had promptly ridden the mere thought of him ‘til the shadow of him had ravished her to ruin. Hauntcraft held Melkor not; and it was with hushed, hiccoughing hot tears loosing from dark cusp of lashes like little stars that the fairylight flickered before him. Shorn lips weakly parting, perhaps, with the hungering whet of an expected apology  –  or, so she has come to believe.

Her tundrian, by some grace, by some design, was not cut entire from the same linen that the males of her then-life had been;
and though he meant no ridicule of her person  (reasonability, rather commendable, at that)  her Mark was a brand on her back and she would swear by the first of their brood that he felt now now now the beat of her heart through balking breast. Sniffling all pathetic;
the scent of her tinged with the unbidden saltglint streak’d along desecrated features. She is arousal and anguish but it was not at all like the plinth; would not ever be the plinth; yet she is nevertheless sickening, surely, for wanting this warlord before and wanting to be wife, wanting  –  wanting that which she had for-ever forsaken herself the wish of.

Her stare upon his shadow;
meet his eye she cannot. The morn he speaks of:  “I did not return to you because I felt I—”  hanging rubied crown, shivering, shivering so forever that she feared that behemoth beneath the earth would rouse again. But finally, finally:
“I felt I had no worth to.”