The Tangle breathe

passionate as alarian was and had always been, his zealot nature did not reach the arctic recesses growing in mahler with each passing moment.
he stared emptily at the boy for a long second and then turned away, regretting having ever spoken so plainly. life had been easier when he had bent his head beneath the plow; he would return to it, a grinding in his soul. again he paced onward, intending this time to ignore any heartfelt words as he should have done in the first.