Sawtooth Spire But the bruises on your ego make you go wild, wild, wild

wylla stepped forward, and mahler was ready to bear her wrath, to continue to trail her helplessly even if she lashed toward him, turned him away. 
he was unprepared for the lowering of her head, the way she ensconced it against his chest and sent his heart to ache with a renewed hope. for a long moment mahler scarcely knew how he might respond; the wind rose again, laden with snow, and buffeted his guard hairs. he stepped closer to wylla, pressed his lips into the silver swathe between the dark dove-grey of her ears, shifted to embrace her smaller form with a love that had long been anguished in the absence of her love.
no words; mahler only closed his eyes against the cold air and breathed in all of her, of every year that he had been bound to wylla in silence, as if each moment he had loved her reverberated against the edge of this one where she had returned.