Moonspear ᵐᵗᵐᵖʰ envinyatar (mtr.)

after the telling of it, mahler was silent. the wind scoured his new vulnerability, but he would not, would not, beg her to turn away whatever hurts she could make of what he had shared. if andraste saw fit to forge a weapon, she would find him helpless before its thrust. 
refashioned; she offered hope of a future upon the char of his past, and he grew cold and distant beneath her ministrations, if only for a moment. us; a droplet of truth in the tiny word.
mahler found he was greatly afraid of it; of this new us, wanting suddenly and only to flee to the quiet mountain atop the groaning of the beast beneath the world. how could he offer her such when he did not know if he had what she wished, if the giving was within him? 
the fairy plied featherlight at him with an utterance of his name; it drew mahler back to earth, and he regarded andraste with a solemnity to his countenance that seemed briefly dour.
the clouds soon found suit to part for sunnier climes; he said nothing, but sought the warm of her throat, the downy press of her lips; drive out, drive out the deepening agonies in soul, for soon he must leave her, and with marigold's wound now bleeding down the back of his spirit.
diaspora beckoned.
the lance of the sun bloomed hot upon andraste's spine, but even in her anguish she pined toward him, and he was helpless. he must answer, lest he damn them both, and he would allow himself this selfishness, this thing he refused to name.