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

Dethroned alderking;
Andraste quivered now beneath bloom’d gooseflesh; stinking of bull’s blood, varnished in the flankfroth of it.

Would he kiss her still?

She understood, early: her initial endeavor of stalling what was to come with the mornrise had met its end; thus, she blanches. Fawnheart; a delicacy came to garner the embellished, bashful bones; biting her ruined lips out of habit, suddenly so affrighted that her Valitúrë would come to think the dawnlight shone through her figure  (ever so thin, so pale.) A playwright come from the heatherland quills his fascination by the gleam of her;
of how the tremendous tininess of fairies may only hold such singular, given feeling at a time, and hangs his head at how unfortunate it is. Anarórë; the choral music of songbirds is bright, restive. The fée is faint, feels faint, and makes a deep, distracted study of the fallen king before them.

“We,”  –  it garbles in her cold wax throat; a tiny flicker of flame that trembles down her chords  —
“we should ... we should use ze hide, and ... tan it into a ... a matting, for ze denmothers and their cubs, come ze whelping days.”  Her step is a gentled, perhaps hesitant way; treading ‘round their ebbed elk somewhat falteringly.  “I wish for as much of this find to be as preserved as is possible,”  canting her scarred muzzle at the bull’s backside, considering how the loins and tail might be cured.  “All innards, all bones. For rations, for marrow. Even ze hooves, I wonder ...”

Catches lower, torn lip between fangs; a she-wolf never without some musing nor drawn brow. Dark lashes unfurl to take an errant glimpse of him—
and she is so, so featherlight that she might wisp away into the reaches of vaulted sky; but it is only Melkor’s hold on her body that is potent enough to keep her grounded in this world. It is why, too, she is drawn to him as a marred moon; orbits ‘round majestic death to be near, always nearer  (and despairs when-ever she is not.)  But!
honeybees again burr and fuss and bumble ‘bout the combwelt within a breast pockmarked with fidgets. There will be no going forward without her warden and, yet ...

It's a fragile kind of luck that she has come to finally stand so near to him. Here, where her pearlmade claws kneaded through thaw and frost and loam in trademark fashion of bashfulness. Would that she could speak, her voice might have taken on some demure airiness; but the halls of it had been lined with tundrian cotton, and her tongue had gone heavy and quailing in shyness. Eyes agleam, fleeting every which way and wimpled with panicked modesty;
their elk, inconsequential; Melkor, imposing. To look everywhere is too much! To look nowhere is too un-enough—!

It has felt forever and a day that she has spent so much time dreaming up what to say, but never quite saying them; so much time wondering how she might utter the fated wish, eased and effortless. But saltglint limns dark lashes from the too much that it has become, that she shivers in the eternal and unending moment of. Finally, finally, then, with a hasty scarfing of air  (of sense!)—
“W-...”  lending her blind, cloudthick eye to crescent up at him with the rich, blushing cheek she turned aside—

“Wed me, m-melitse.”