Sleepy Fox Hollow Gain the weight of you, then lose it

mahler sat back upon his haunches. she had chosen to come to the hollow, had chosen to go to sawtooth, and lastly, had chosen nova. but she had not chosen the things that accompanied such choices, namely his own. he had mistreated her for realizing her own limitations, and they had spun a bitter path between them, reinforcing with hatred and with walking-away, with stubbornness, with doubt. with fear.
the cough, tickling the inside of his jawline.
now wylla chose to come to noctisardor. he thought of the place he had taken himself at the beginning of the past illness, where few could find him without seeking. mahler considered the size of the land he had taken from legion, the burgeoning forests, the game-trails and shafts of golden light shimmering down upon hidden clearings.
there were many places to live as part of rivenwood, and yet as one's own self. in his mind, the cloven place he had found in a reflection of the broken boulder: a cracked triangular stone with a wider archway. it was for now choked with unrelentant ferns and filled with the crumbling debris of the animals that had long ago made it their home. but the cave behind the foliage was cool and wide. 
he could bring her there, he could —
no — he stopped his mind from whirling wild. varte, mann. she has not said all is well. she has not said she will live some new life with you there. mahler, horrified at the prospect of a misstep on the crackling of ice. 
"and i vill take care of you in rivenvood."