Northstar Vale and we weren't even married (dmn?)

Inexperience, all;
they might be  (presumably)  alone for this skirmish, but her own predicament still sets a balefire blush to pale swan's neck and hunkers down within gaunt cheeks; eats up her ears and sloughs through her stomach like something inflamed and ill-made. Her fangs have found the hunchback's ruff, and though she is instructed to bring blood Andraste cannot help but gnaw and nip sharp, as if the strength in her jaws is reduced by the initial distraction of pushing her onto her back;
breast weighs itself now upon Fëafelmë's shoulders with spindly arms wended 'round the crestborn, mouth full of nape. Her own spine, set aflame; without any other idea of how to act in the moment, the may queen falls back upon the bleary mem'ry of her brother and she, mere whelps tussling and triumphing over another;
so rabbitlike, her hinds  (the most sinewy things that are a part of her skinny self)  flurry out and Undómiel kicks for the ribs, kicks for the hips, knees, belly, anything; kicks and kicks hard, hard enough to hope she might wind her mentor—
(clutching naiad now as arctic foxfur clutches to a dignified neck)
—kicks with such vehemence that she carries herself entirely heels-over-head-over-Kalika, windmilling and wheezing as she kisses the earth with a thump of red crown.

Dignity demolished, the dazed fée can only claw her way back to the siren, stumbling; ridicuously hoping that her own fall had sundered them both.