Jade Fern Grove klagelied

something about the way her legs held up her small body in the strengthening glow of morning. all of wylla detailed, but the serenity of her lines broken by the pleading in her voice. surely she had never asked so —! he did not understand;
please
"vylla, are you" coming home? have you —
and still mahler knew what he had scented wended into her fur, and it flew in the face of the timid barren creature she had somehow become.
he breathed, focused upon it; he was headlong and waning quickly in his abiliities to keep from embracing her again.
and then the guttural, garbled sound of his own words. at first mahler had only a blink, and then he cleared his throat, tears jabbing at the innards of his gaze. unsure that he had ever heard wylla speak in such a way before, he at last went to her again on stiff legs that attempted not to tremble, searching past the muzzy light in her sunflower eyes. it was such a crude, self-same thing to say, the sort of phrase she might use when rolling over to him in the morning.
mahler was consumed by the want to lie next to her again.
"tell me you vere coming back, vylla. please." an echo, swallowed.