Whitewater Gorge i wish i could rub the grief from you as if it were a smudge on the cheek

it would be an untruth to claim that mahler was unmoved by the ferocity of coolness with which aurëwen regarded him, spoke to him of why she had chosen the ragged path out of diaspora. and he was silent, implacable; a stone idol to the gilded fury of her quiet testament.
it was not only for herself that she had done this thing, but for her children, and mahler understood well that this was one arena in which he was not versed.
the gargoyle watched her with the cloak of impassivity heavy upon him, but the dove’s words suggested to his own mind what he had begun to doubt, that the dream he and stigmata had spun one bloodstained night was mere gossamer. 
aurëwen was not the first to question it; had not liri? had not ruenna? it had been many weeks since the honey-eyed woman had come to mind, and mahler was struck with the realization that their dream for diaspora had driven her away.
ruenna; the thought of her name caused the shadowpriest an ache he could scarce afford in the moment. ruenna; he put her aside, but not before his lips tightened, the evidence of a perceptible hurt.
flayed by her travails both physical and tearstained, aurëwen trembled but did not remove herself from his judgement; instead her slim frame circled closer and mahler did not move. here he felt worthless, for to know if one wished to be touched in a painful moment was a wisdom that evaded him. he had no ill will toward the sylph, would gladly have taken her into his embrace if it was of benefit to her, but still he stood.
”vhere are your children?” mahler asked at length, turning ‘round to level his gaze upon her again. there was something here; something weighed upon her already-dulled heart, and he would know it.