Northstar Vale i miss you in the dawn & most of all, your fingerprints, everywhere (mtr.)

such a thing, love; such a thing, touch. he had both; he had nothing. she churned, the desire to be swallowed by his gloaming apparent in the scarred countenance for which mahler found a singular sort of charred adoration. ah! what a fool! to have chosen a fool! and yet she was not, only a smitten seraph, too groundless and recherché for the world. for his world, the gargoyle thought with an upheaval of breast, hephaestus readying the anvil to mold yielding aurëwen yet again.
"vone vould be stupid not to look," he murmured, drunk upon the poured-cream column of her throat. what was this sensation — she fit not into his existence. there was no place for a dove within the forge that drove the shadowpriest, and yet she whittled away at him all the same, waters against the stone of his resistance.
here, indeed, and he had lost himself. if ere there was magick in the world, mahler felt she would be it: a fairy come from some enchanted weald to wend her spare and elegant limbs round him and draw him from the cold realm of the living to a place altogether warm and rife with a splendor he could almost not bear to taste again.
what was the name for such a thing ... ! ah! the vibration of his throat silenced his own words, drove them from the battlefield of his tongue, which swept now along the pulse of aurëwen's life, hot with a throbbing blood that he was sure was specific only to the dove herself.
what was it she wished? diaspora was the core of him. mahler could not run down the path she revealed, and yet some feral wildling thing gnashed its teeth and wished only that he might.