Otatso Wetlands Break free and leave us in ruins

i am done —
a death knell, and mahler struggled to hear the rest of what wylla said. he must remain in control; stag had not fled but stood subdued close to the she-wolf now lashing his ears with the end the end the end —
i am done.
wylla, finished, mahler, always unraveling but never quite there. he had made his last plea and she had seen the selfishness in it, the inability to at last relinquish his hold upon the last place he had built. and that, the sum of it. land before her, no matter how he sought to transform and change it. it was not himself he was changing, he supposed bitterly.
wylla did not quite close the proverbial door, but her words landed heavy and stonelike to strike against him.
mahler wanted to snap that he could not change, but was did that hold truth? was he only silently horrified at the idea of being untethered from something to which he might point as legacy? a matter for another time.
"go," he seethed, turretted fur searing high upon his nape again. "not for me. for him. for you. he cannot protect you if somevone else comes upon you here." another man might outright slay the yearling and claim what wylla's figure pulsated, and in this open sloping territory — paternalism mingled with evasion, unwillingness to mire himself in another sharp retort of words; he had made himself naked and she had burned him once more, and arrogance warred with reason hotly.