Sawtooth Spire unzureichend

there was a wound in phaedra; she seemed at once both terribly aged and terribly young. mahler wished to gather her up, to baby her, but the inner suggestion that he was no longer welcome crushed the dust of it into silence. her father did not miss the nettled glint upon her cheek; were she to allow it, he would tentatively reach to brush the tip of one ear with his muzzle.
she was looking at her feet again, and now the gargoyle paused in his own step, tormented by what his own pride had done to such a gallant and glowing girl. would she return to herself? was he selfish for wishing it to be so? a swallow; mahler searched for her eyes, for their shifting color from something limpid and babyish to a more knowing hue, sharper.
"als du geboren wurdest, lag wunderschöner schnee auf dem boden," he breathed, having first intended to match their talk with a discussion of pale flowers.
and he had come from that snow into the pain of wylla's teeth and the shock of phaedra's half-dead tiny form.
her breath had been the greatest happiness in that moment, and he would not forget the rush of it.
"ich möchte, dass du weißt, dass ich dich liebe und es tut mir leid," the words tumbling in a stumbled rush; a quick, encouraging quirk of his lips, for he was not sure what else to say, nor to do, and the scent of violets soon brushed into his senses, pulling his attention to the thousand tiny weavers tying silk to the purpled flowers.