Northstar Vale zwilling

She fragments, now;
Lips stiff and numb with the crowding cold. Nieninquë,  noted a small, detached voice within the midpoint of her mind; the one wisping, as though making notes of clinical record:  He has come to seek forgiveness. Speak, and show him that you were never furious. Let him know of your faith.  But Andraste has gone fragile and faraway; glinting northron spire; she is shrieking inside, thrashing fearful and feral against the anguish so evident upon the grimace of him. Cobwebbed lips pluck themselves apart; cottonmouthed, warbling weak, so weak, dust in throat,
“Yes.”

Cruel, even now! cries the creature within her, faltering; and altogether Andraste aches to only reach for her golem and to wend her arms ‘round those heaving shoulders with a remedial touch that is not, for once, lurid; to hold him to her and her to him with only the purest of passions;
he knows all that writhes within her  (he has always known)  and her lunejaw is wound; affrighted of herself, and how hidden they had kept themselves of another.  Mahler, Mahler  —
the wars of him; all that he has wreaked within her. Suffocating; stifled. Yielding mold to what-ever he wished of her; but she would not unleash some queenswrath upon that pleading head. No matter her balking.