Porcupine Ridge ❝—berries tart & lilac sweet.❞ (wdg.)

iii

Part II of I.  @Melkor & @Dasher ♡ All other tags (if any) for reference!

“Melitse.”

Beneath the world, starlit returned from valespires and reached now to bid her stygian to wake with rabbitsoft kisses to lashes, to nose. She smelled of wildwood and stonybrooks, of wintersun and loamdust, of @Kukutux's botanicals; let him see through greylight of Cuivénen the berrysmudge and mud-blemish crouched amongst the cicatrix of her features, her figure. Let him gather her close, and closer still regardless; tucked now into those tendered, hidden places of him, mouthing gentle about his chin, the line of hammer-heavy jaw. Hours and hours had she spent before the drowned sun and beneath the steady tick of stars. But now, now  —

the third one is the love we never see coming: the one that usually looks all wrong for us and destroys any lingering ideals we cling to about what love is supposed to be. this is the love that comes so easy it doesn't seem possible.

—  should he need it, Andraste rouses him with presses of her lips to jaw, with meldings of her softer self to the hard mold of his. In time, plaited herself along his ribs and went adrift through the laden mists of their Rest. Further  –  further and farther, 'til she flutes a loontrill to the Court of their early excursion. Wisps now for the ridges that she has worn herself o'er, again and again for the deeper hours.

The stars have relinquished their hold on her, leaving her dazed and a smidgen mooney. But, perhaps it is only him;
him, and all else that belies each breath of hers. She speaks not of it, however, and instead whispers to him this plot of the hunt she has  —  for surely the supplying of venison to their Court would be most appealing?

it shows us that love doesn’t have to be how we thought in order to be true. this is the love that keeps knocking on our door regardless of how long it takes us to answer. it's the love that just feels right.

For now, his fairylight glimmers in the quiet bewitching hour; coaxes her  (more than worthy of being)  Valitúrë to walk steadied with her the marked, spiderwebbed paths that she had mussed with myriad scent in the earlier twilight;
awaits any giveaway of the greenlord that she has sworn to the hateful, in-between dark of constellations the relieving the flesh from bone and blood of.