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

the shadow and the dove stayed in a quiet communion, mahler pensive, aurewen desolate. he rebuked himself for the response of his baser self to her tears, to the uncommon warmth of a rare touch, to her femininity; it was not truly what he wished, for mahler found early that he operated separately from the male flesh in which he was encased. 
and still he was ashamed for it, but the moment thankfully passed, and he was able to refocus fully upon her suggestion that he come to where dragomir lay. instantly he agreed; it glowed passionately in the lavender ice of his gaze, and the gargoyle gave a single nod. "i do not know vhere kaisteloki is," he admitted, stumbling somewhat over the unfamilarity of the syllables,"but if you vill give me some leave, a day or two at most, i vill come to see dragomir."
he was moved that even in her grief aurewn thought of him, thought of her son's love for the dour musiker, and his heart ached within his chest beneath the weight of things that had no name but overwhelmed him all the same.