Moonspear ᵐᵗᵐᵖʰ envinyatar (mtr.)

Blame—
she knows not the lieu of which Mahler entreats; she had known the ashen embitterment with which her dragon had issued, much too soon before his fall; she had known he had been ensnared with such frustrations, perchance even before she had whisked them from all geist alike;
would it not be more fortuitous for they she had been struck from? To go forth from this place a wraith to all who would never again know her? To become as mistful as the ones in the labyrinthine mind of her making, wherein the figments of her shrikes may understand all the reason for her wrongdoing better than she had never been able to before voice?

All this and more she wishes tell her musiker for it is there in the parting of lily’d lips! Limestone;
the limestone upon her blemished back is so heartrendingly welcome and for a beat of it she feels so faint; as when the skies had cleaved open her soul and had struck her from the first of self-servitude.

The whisper of the falls is insignificantly meager, now;
for Mahler presents the rarest, it seems, of revelations thus far  (how many seasons since another has beckoned her to listen to their strident soul?)  A fable of fatherhood; fever; forsaking. As the golem unravels before her, the silver only exists insomuch for each tear; each faltering of his own foreign timbre in this retelling. The stygian breadth of him laments for a now-waned wife and for their ‘Astarte’— how he had taken his own flight, ridden—

And he shrouds before her once more; imploring; intending;
and so again does the stricken let the beginnings of words perch upon tongue, but they are much too paltry to convey the anguish that his age-old agony elicts within her. Neither can she bequeath such, however, for rarer still is the salt of despondency she tastes upon his hewn lips;
and so again the words do not leave her; cannot, in this cavern, as the smith crowds her into limestone and coaxes her return into his arms. 

A ragged rasp; fraying; contrarian insistence in the soft shake of skull:
“No. ... No, it is not cowardice,”  she dared murmur against the seam of his mouth; his past machinations and hers.  “Those within your past life would not wish for you to remain so stoppered in condemnation. I can only wonder as to how many lives you have delivered into this world, envinyatar. I can only wonder as to how proud your sons, your Marigold, your Astarte would be,”  pressed both blessed names into both salt-stained cheeks; gleaming, soulheld gaze unveiling to drape within his own,  “if ever they knew of this. You do not labor in vain; you have not.”  Scarce a whisper, then, as she eased her marred crown up into the mauve chin.

The frostfallen flame of her Mark give cause to writhe; to lean into the towering, heavy anvil of his figure;
shivering, as her marred mouth meets with ponderous recognition the ebb of life within the General's throat. Her chords, more taut than rigging; fractured figure poised in a moment that the raw places of her do not understand but wish for his lips to be and
"Mahler ..."