Noctisardor Bypass bedauert

wylla was a bouquet that crept closer; mahler felt all the press of her n the familiar ways, of how she fit her body to his own, of how greystone and silver melded until they almost blended to one another. he held her there, the forgiveness she gave him feathering and fluting in him until his throat tightened and the tears threatened the once-gated gaze.
how tormentous it had been to be so closed to wylla! how in just the maintenance of his own heart's fenceline, mahler had exhausted himself. he had forgotten the goodness in the warmth of her body, the way that their limbs tangled; he had forgotten what it was to no longer sense the ends of himself where wylla began, starved for their intimacy in these long splitting years.
her face, her forehead, the proud little chin, the curve of her ear; all kissed in the furor of dawn she had given him; mahler forgave her all the events she believed she had ever precipitated, and had not realized till this moment that he had surrendered all hope of hearing her voice soft upon his ears again.
"ich vergebe dir."