Sawtooth Spire Wanna believe, wanna believe that you don't have a bad bone in your body

time was marked by the last hours that mahler had seen thade. it was notched by fits of self-hatred, anger that his son had run into the night like a fool — it was weighed by the bites of meat he took and chewed like an automaton, fuel for a fire mahler refused to let be snuffed.
speckled with new greying hairs, bedraggled, tangled; the man did not allow himself the relief of an orderly appearance. he had not earned his respite.
such times ripped back the heavy door h had closed upon his memories of the first children, of their small and lifeless bodies gathered close to marigold as she gasped out her last. had that been how it had happened? mahler bit his lip for the second time; the stab of pain broke away the image and he was able to stumble forward once more.
he forced himself upward again, despite having searched for any small trail thade might have left; he climbed the crags until a slice of mountain cut his nail and he was forced to descend, swearing as he blunted the bleeding with moss and stalked to see phaedra.
his schatzi had refused his fatherly nature, and at any rate, the gargoyle was quelled at once to see wylla in a state she had hardly ever allowed herself. rage and shame vied for twinned places within his heart; mahler was seized with the great need to embrace his beloved, to beg that she turn upon his broader shoulders the breadth of her anger and her grief.
the graphite ears fell backward; mahler issued a lowly whine and took one step, a second, then stood helplessly pinned in his own path as he silently begged for wylla to see him.