Whitebark Stream i'll take the sweat from your palms,

mahler did not know what he might do with her tears, nor the intensity of her focus upon him. nor her pledge. he could not ask her to be away from duskfire, squandering her plantwork upon him.
but neither did the gargoyle believe he could keep her from it.
his voice was gruff as he spoke, simultaneously wishing to embrace her again, and filled with a relief that he would be alive for the woman who lay healing amid the ferns.
touching iana would only be for his own comfort;
he bent his head before her instead, unable to say aloud his thanks.