Nova Peak If you must fight, fight with yourself and your thoughts in the night

there was an immediate spate of regret, but mahler set his jaw. it had been said; it could not be withdrawn or covered up. he had been alone and it had done well for him. some tiny part of the gargoyle believed she might yet return again, but he would not rely upon it. 
the tonality of her voice was final.
let her go, let her seek a more pleasing forever elsewhere. if wylla did not come back he would know that she had discovered a more fulfilling place. but daylight on the second day would bring a new life to glow above them.
one that lacked the fiery eisen.
a stubborn clamp at his throat, a betrayal of grief as she mentioned their children. a nod. he would not patronize her by stating that she would be allowed to visit. she knew it to be so. he did not think she would come back.
caught in the steady rising fog of the final storm he had created, mahler was utterly silent, a rock face to counter the coldness of her parting words with only a crisp nod in answer. 
later the ends of him would catch fire in anguish. for now, he was the remembered brackishness of winterholme.
love made poor mortar for the stones of a bond, and mahler would not fall prey to it again.