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

and he coloured beneath it, beneath the dark fur of his cheeks, flushing like a boy. it had been so with marigold at first, he remembered, then ruenna, then takiyok — mahler decided he would perhaps never be accustomed to the dainty butterfly of a woman’s kiss, however she meant it.
with a sudden awkwardness did he brush her brow with his own lips, drawing back as to place a buffer of air between them lest he bumble again. ”i vill come soon,” mahler murmured somberly, bowing once. if aurëwen had nothing else to add, he would turn and begin his trek back to diaspora at once, to prepare for a longer trip.