The Tangle breathe

The fire in him is doused before it truly begins, Mahler's words settling over him like a shock of cold water. Something has broken him, he thinks, surprised by the thought — but it feels right. It feels like the truth. The Mahler he'd known hadn't been like this.
So now it is over.
He almost watches him go in silence, almost lets the moment slip between his fingers, sand in the wind. But reality abruptly reclaims him, snapping him back to the moment to the sound of his own voice. Mahler — He calls, before he knows he's going to. Another few steps forward, uncertain. I don't know what happened to you — What made you so dark, so clouded — But I'm sorry... and I'm here. He turns to take his own leave, and then adds, Thank you. The somberness of it makes it feel almost worthless as a sentiment, but he wouldn't feel right if he left it unsaid. Maybe he'd burned a bridge here, and he doesn't regret that (not if it's for Rosalyn, for Rusalka, for Midar and their life together), but he will never close the door entirely on Mahler. Given the option, he would find him and tend to him past the snarls and snaps a million times over, if only to see the man thrive somewhere in the world. He loves him in his own indirect, distant way — in the unique way one can only love a perfect stranger they know solely through brief snapshots of their life, scattered over the years; just enough to get the sense that there is a person behind it all, someone you might root for and grieve with and rally behind if you truly knew them.
But he doesn't know him. And that's why he leaves.