Northstar Vale oh, really? you usually just let strangers rub chamomile onto your lovely bottom?

Voice, husky with sleep: “Mara tuilë,”
—heruvesto ... but she did not yet utter such things, for long as she might, she was still much too prone to shyness. The unfamiliarity of it was something to be cradled to her breast along with the name that hung there, waiting to be mantled to her own. And at this hour, her insides were tranquil, and the fée luxuriated in a delightful feeling that rouses when studying someone having to do something unwieldy that she was not required to do herself. It was one that still lingered to stay with her; but by the look of him, she is sure that  (her hazy harassments aside)  he managed in her stead well. And, for what-ever reason, he is warm; warm enough to coax a trademark hum from disused, dusky throat and reach for him.

Her doll-lolling head was not as heavied as before; not so burdened by a hill of sleepy snow that kept her eyes from peering o'er the bulk of him any further than his shoulder. Now, she rises past the woad shoulder, rummages with filmy eyes through the frostfade mane,  “I have missed you, melitse,”  tones a bit breathy, a little winded by the earnest way she'd melded herself to him with. He had presided over her in the deep slumber ... but now that she could again touch him, again taste him  –  Andraste rose, or, tried to—
tried to push herself against him in a needy little way; wobbly and weak, rickety; a huff of breath left her as she staggered in half-sit, her breast meeting the beryl ribs.

Dazed, some; features flushing as she lie awkwardly along him; wishing only to feel his arms around her and the beat of his heart at her ear. Hide against hide, flesh against flesh  –  but could not! How was she feeling?

“Lovely. Rested. Come here,”  then, as she was never one to forget her manners, even now:  “please?”