Noctisardor Bypass ich muss dir sagen

Being alone, had been Wylla's answer, when what she meant to say was dying alone. She knew now that she would die alone a hundred times if it meant not having to live in a world where Mahler was not. She would take a thousand lectures and a million small betrayals over having to watch him go so prematurely. Lusca's everlasting vitality had planted in her daughter a false hope that all should be so long-lived, but now she was forced to acknowledge that most wolves died much younger, and much more brutally.

To die of sickness surrounded by helpless loved ones was surely the worst way to go. And she had squandered the last year in anger, no matter how dignified.

Wylla could say nothing in response. All she could do was breathe and fight to push herself back from the edge of a panic attack. It wouldn't help anyone for her to spin out here. Mahler seemed to sense as much, for suddenly he was pressed tight against her, bringing a fresh wave of sorrow and longing and imminent loss that forced her to bury her face into his chest. There, she imagined his heartbeat like a bomb — the way he spoke, it could stop any second.

He whispered that he was afraid, making her gut ball up as tight as any fist she might have thrown at him in anger so many times before. She shook her head against the heat of him. No, she said, defiant. No. We can still go. He couldn't think he was going to waste that quickly, could he? How long had he known? Somewhere deep inside there was anger, too, anger that this should happen, anger that he had not told her and had let her push him away again. When you're better, we'll go.