Sleepy Fox Hollow Took this dagger in me and removed it

tell me if this is not okay! <3

do you vant to see vhere i lived before you were born? mahler asked phaedra that morning. 
he set a pace through the glindering trees with their unchanged heads and nodding boughs. windholme rushed on above them; here they descended along the stone curvature of the foxhollow where he had led diaspora.
it was unchanged as ever. he had once thought the high ridges banal and vexing after his lofty life in the sunspire; mahler had felt always made for mountains. but the rockfaced bowl softened as he went, until all around him the emerald forage stretched its meadowy fingers toward the sentinel ring of trees. here a fox called; here another ran, a streak of vermillion. 
because stigmata had died and the quakes had come, because diaspora had fractured here and never been itself again, because mahler had been exiled to the fieldplace, he had not seen its serenity before.
he would have spoken more at length as dark tallness and willowy palefleck came through the boles, covering their dew-grass step with recollections and memories. mahler might have even, at last, mentioned diaspora, were it not for the singular scent come through spear-plain and direct, wheeling the gargoyle silently in that direction as if he were a nose-ringed bull.
what he found was wylla, her fragrance dripping with the green ichor of infection. he had not come so close when he saw how she burned with fever, how it wreathed transparent seething coils toward him.
he was pacing away from phaedra, brow furrowed in horrified despair. "vylla," he muttered helplessly, scar-etched head reaching heavily and inexorably for her.
it did not matter how they had broken one another; mahler was helpless always when it came to the clarion shriek of her aura.