Sleepy Fox Hollow To the house in the pines where the road ends

he could not have expected her apology, nor the bare admission that came next. breath clutched in his throat, and mahler was silent, a quirk of his lips the only indication that he had heard her. they shared another several steps of heated quietude before he blinked, returned to himself.
there had only been some few children in his life, but mahler had loved each of them, from tiercel to stag. perhaps the truth of it was, if they were his, no amount of geography could separate the bond of fatherhood he had only once been able to experience, and only in brief. 
perhaps the truth was that mahler wished to be in control to avoid the deepest loss replaying itself upon the halls of his heart.
in true form, he said none of this to wylla, but his jaw tightened and at length he paused in his steps, looked upon her with a long and solemn shade crossing his features. "i do not know how to talk to you either. i do not know how to treat you," mahler entreated, pressing on. "i do not know if you are happy here, or if you should be here vith ... if you vant to be here."
now that you know the truth.
now that you know the reality of what i plan to do.
love met with scorn, met with disapproval, met with anger — and still mahler returned for her, again and again.