amusing how both of them reached back to grimnismal at times. mahler was not an individual who had ever accepted fate, and he did not think wylla found it plausible either. they had gone from the lives of one another; he had never expected to see her again, and certainly not at a time when he weathered the crush of several sorrows.
she had come back, and mahler had felt himself pulled together again, stone by stone. leeriness spoke in his breast, but he only moved closer to the ferocious little wolfess who had so captured him time and again. 
the silent want of her teeth drew him down; mahler ignored the seeping wet and drew her to him. propping chin over the delicate arch of her skull, the gargoyle inhaled, wanting too much to speak —
but what came was a groan, a laugh, something that peeled them from the edge of further vulnerability into a safer place of humour. "vylla," mahler said with faux severity, "i must revoke your speaking privileges." the deep barrel of his chest housed a chuckle; he sighed and held his beloved somewhat tighter, refusing to let this moment escape them.