Mount Apikuni i mean, when he made love to me, it was like he was fixing a carbouretter or sommink—

Does he? was a thought with knobby knees and trembling fingers clutching at skirts; love was a thing that she had come to dread before delight; her heart was honey, heathery, and everything that was Melkor burred 'round within like bees.

She cannot fathom how they managed to even bumble through this deep, starving season  —  but she has found that the appetites of the body are of no importance when weighed against the appetites of the soul. In the dark of this morn, she had spent a long time just looking down at his face in all its fierce beauty, lacing her ruined mouth from temple to chin, sketching her nose down the line of his throat and out along the broad wings of his collarbone. She'd lain against the strength of each crescenting bone, nipping at each filament of woad fur; had marveled at the tundrian-knit muscluature and the resting brawn in the graceful breadth of his shoulders. Adores this, she thinks, more than the dragging heaviness of him upon her or the hard wanting of him against her.

Her breath comes fluttery, again; everything wells up brimming to lashes and stains cheeks flushed beneath fur with captivation; the druid still consoles her with a touch, though, and it is for her sake that Andraste snuffles, turns to paw at her silly tears that have no reason to be shed. Whatever godgathering had crafted her had deigned to do so with the intention that she leave not a thing unloved.

It was infuriating, really.

She had been practically swooned against the oracle inkwell up until she started  —  still not having answered Bhediya. Lungs full and burning with the mem'ry of the air that melitse had breathed and how she hadn't delved into the sculpted planes of his ashlar spine and strife-heavy thighs. She wasn't altogether sure that she had heard the sorceress, what with the rhythm of the warlord's life in her head, but:

Words a bit more than weak:  “Ah, Bees. F-forgive me,”  struggling some to speak past the beat of Melkor's heart, the steady and slow drumming within her marrow a heavy blessing.  “We are, well – we are meant to have whelps this season,”  and shakily followed with (in case the druid was lost by her friend’s ardent agitation)  “together,”  clumsy and cottonpink beneath her fur,  “us, I-I mean. Him and I. You— you should meet him, when you visit? Ah–”