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

he rose to it, the strain of the past several days, months even, beginning to lessen somewhat in her presence. wylla dragged him across hill and vale, through the eddies and valleys and swift-moving current of her emotions; he could only clutch the side of the little raft and capitulate to the route she chose, the speed at which they moved.
with wylla, mahler was content to follow, and there lay the sum of it: he was not one to clamber ranks, to flaunt his own, to want for more than children, routine, safety; and she cut to the crux of it easily.
"vell, stigmata vas killed," mahler answered plainly, directly — anything else would be a disservice to the iron star's buried bones.
"i vould have been content to be at his side," the gargoyle went on, using her words from a moment ago as he enjoyed the ring of them, the smooth way the sounds fit together upon his tongue.
"but general; it has been challenging, and now i see vhat a burden he carried. i am hardly made for it." he spoke with the careful cadence of the truthful, stealing sideways glances at wylla before he had finished, and silenced himself for the time being.