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

"i did," mahler confirmed, powerful shoulders rolling with the force of a sigh. he wanted to proceed no further; caught by a sudden weariness that exacerbated the already great strain upon his physical form, the general settled himself upon his haunches alongside the path, the cold threatening his undercarriage with a vague bite of ice.
"i did not think you vould stay," he revealed, "but you did. and then this ... i do not have a vord for it."
ears cupped forward gently. "vhatever it is, it has thorns and leaves now, and ve do not know vhat to do vith it." what could be done? it was best to allow such things a quiet death, or a return to the grave where it had been interred over a year in the case of mahler.
a glow flickered in his eyes; he lay them upon her thoughtfully. "vhat has this changed for you, vylla?" his mind, tongue, physicality — all clung to a thread of coherence, but he doggedly flung himself into the nuanced chords of their discourse, intrigued despite the bite of mild despair.