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

“Quiquië koslmë,”  continued lilt,  “aiano avanyárima siqilma:
hireccoiamallë estatina uo.”

Though the words may be woven as silk from the soft strumming of her own throat—
“Quiquië márlondë entullmë,
me-tulil enno asië nyando kiluva,”
—but they were halting, nevermind how honeyed, and the ruminating breaths taken at intervals were as much for her own sake as they were for her betrothed’s. It was easier to forgive him, rather than herself, for stumbling and slowing over words so steeped in twilit past. Still: each made their valiant effort, respectively.

“Antalë indómë ar órenya.
Nai amanya hilyainyë ier i Anar;
nai elen atta siluvat aurenna veryanwesto.”

With the last, winded word wisped, the sidereal wills herself to remember what the beat of her own heart feels like  –  if it evens remains to beat  –  but, she supposes, perhaps she never might again know. Not after this hour. So Andraste murmurs some deserved  You did well  praise for her tundrian, and, in the moments before they must mark, savors the quiet interlude by studying the sculpture of the wildhunt warlord before her;
beautiful, in that way that touches one's spirit, and yet, there was a prevelant sternness that was there to steady it. Stirrings, some achings; but there would be time, later, ever later for her to lapse into idiocy and girlish infatuation for the features and figure he so bore. Now, however:

“You were correct, earlier. Oftentimes, it is placed upon ze throat. For those such as yourself, though,”  a frore-fox dimpling of ruined cheek,  “there is ze alternative of marking ze second of either ribs. As I have made ze proposal, howe’er, I must initiate this by beginning. I ... I promise to be gentle.”  Rising, reserved; requesting:  “May I please mark you, melitse?”

Not that he was not able to withstand a bit of pain; and the fée flushes beneath her hide the eleventhtieth time for reassuring a warrior of such ... but only by his express leave would she begin.