Noctisardor Bypass [m] can you shatter my mirror to see outside myself

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The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: references to sex + sexual assault.

Her scent had changed. Surely he had to know about it, too. Laurel felt a nervous stirring inside of her chest as she thought of Mahler. He was the only one that she trusted. He said he'd been unable to touch her, and that was precisely why he needed to be the one to touch her. He had asked her for children, and she needed another chance at being a good mother so badly. Perhaps this could be a fresh chance for both of them. She didn't know much of his past, except that he must be a better father than she a mother, considering his children had stayed around for so long.

Confident strides moved through the territory. There was something about her heat that changed Laurel, and her timidness and fear seemed completely vanished when one looked at her on the outside. The screaming fear was still there between her ears, the honing voice filled with mocking laughter ever-present as he commanded her. It had been so long since Laurel had been touched by a man. By me. Could she really do it at all? Her stomach twisted into a nervous knot at the thought of laying with a man again, but on the outside she was Laurel-in-heat: Resolute, somewhat playful and absolutely glowing with confidence.

Without calling outright she sought out @Mahler 's whereabouts. He would know why long before she even came into view.

he had been preoccupied.
medicines and children and tending and wylla, always, wylla, there, riding along the back of his shoulders, where brain met stem and he would not let her go from this place.
he would surrender nothing about her.
in his jaws, more green things to bring to speedy and malila at the pharmacy.
they dropped, suddenly, as the man's head rose.
the saccharine glint of seasonal secrecy drifting in a flagrant openness through his noctisardor. he came away at once, unable to halt the designs it had upon him; he emerged into laurel's presence, hungry and shocked by his own ravening.
"laurel,"  voice stiff, heavy flat muscles tensing beneath his rich coat as he drew his eyes across her auburn frame.
"you should go outside the borders now," as he had said with sequoia.
but unlike the wild girl, laurel was a woman, already made mother, and it showed in the curvature of her hips from which he could scarcely shake his gaze.
delirious. this was a dangerous game.

Finally he came into view. Laurel could feel her body yearn, and it disgusted her. That she would be so driven by her body, and that she would desire anyone, anything so deeply. Laurel's level gaze found him; awaiting, confident, sultry. She did not know why he had been unable the other day, but she guessed it had something to do with honour — for Mahler seemed the sort of man who thought honour was very important; men like him she would laugh at in her younger years — and them being unattached. It had only bolstered her confidence that it should be him. She would not be torn apart in the outside world by those... Me? Beasts. She would have only a man who would not throw himself violently against her only because of her scent. She would have only a man with honour.

Mahler. I found you, Laurel said, voice serious with an undertone of playful sass, even though he had found her. His voice was colder when he spoke her name, colder than before. The warmth and tenderness that had been there before was lacking, but she could see the conflict in his eyes. He told her to go, but everything but his voice told her to stay; the conflict in his eyes, the tenseness in his muscles... No, Laurel said resolutely when he said that she must go outside the borders. There was a fire burning in her heart as well as her eyes when she said this, making it very clear that she did not intend to leave; did not intend to bed anyone but him.

Laurel stepped towards him, hips swaying and tail waving gently to spread her scent, closing the distance that burned between the two of them. It can only be you, she said as she drew closer, intent on reaching him so that her touch may convince him where her words could not. She did not want to tell him why precisely, did not want to tell him of her shameful past. Hopefully she would not need to. There's no one else I trust. Words to fill the space between them as she closed the distance; words to keep him entertained until she was close enough to whisper into his ears what was meant only for him, to apply means that she had not in so, so many years.

laurel had found him, and weakened him. he did not understand why she should pull him so terribly when the woman had done no more than iana. 
but now laurel stood shrouded in the same sort of malaise that had brought a man below mahler's jaws, and ended that interlude with wylla into strips of iron.
she was not wylla, and this he reminded himself fervently, helplessly rooted to the loam of his favoured bypass as laurel sauntered closer. gone the shy woman, gone the meek woman, gone even the terrified woman. in her place, a lamia, serpentine step and the hardfire of her hazel eyes, resting upon him. wanting. demanding.
there was no capitulation in laurel. mahler found himself caught up between his own most natural want, and the pledge he had made, long before wylla said
i'll come to rivenwood.
a cough, ringing in the dimming air between them.
"i am bound to this place. to my children. and to vylla," mahler ventured, hating himself for it as mind's lust urged him to encircle laurel last, last before he made his place alongside the one he loved — further loathing then, to be so aware and yet not.
he stepped too, meeting the desirous fecund she-wolf where she stood, her scent drilling into all pores of himself, reaching to her despite all the fevered shouting of his mind. "so you see, i cannot," a strangled whisper dividing a line that rushed with the waters of her, all along the boundaries of himself.

Even as she approached did Laurel understand that it wouldn't be easy. She did not come here for easy, anyway. He had said before that he could not, and that was precisely why it must be him. The cough rang through the air between them and gave Laurel a moment's pause, before he finally spoke.

It meant nothing to her. This place? This would only fortify Rivenwood. His children? Why did they have anything to do with this? Wylla... Who was Wylla? A deity, perhaps, or perhaps another woman. But Laurel had learned early on that she could wile away any man from their woman. And did she need it this time. Perhaps if she did not have so many things she needed — a win, children, Indra back, not to be devoured by the beasts outside — she might have asked him about this 'Wylla'.

His words said he could not, but his body stepped forward. Conflict was written on his face the same way that it was written in Laurel's heart. She did not know if she could trust Mahler, but she needed him to get her Indra back. She needed him because... Something inside of her told her that maybe, they could find peace. Maybe...

But she was a Queen, no subordinate, and perhaps like Mahler had taken the Bypass by force, perhaps she should take his heart by force. As she reached him Laurel did not move to touch him at first. Lingering a moment. Please, Laurel said, a single word — a hoarse whisper, a longing whisper, filled with lust and desire, as if she was begging him for it. Though this one word was confident and sultry, there was a truth to it. She proceeded, words quieter this time, as though meant only for his ears, Don't leave me to the beasts outside. This was for more than just her vanity. This was for more than just trusting Mahler. It was because she did not trust the men outside of this pack. She lingered, her muzzle so close to his that she could almost, almost touch, the anticipation of his touch — of touching him — burning in her body.

the beasts —!
he was seized by visions of her dallying with men outside rivenwood, those who were not him and not the silent wolf with which she had come; in a fury, he still wondered why praimfaya and sequoia pursuing their futures outside the borders had not brought him to such possessiveness.
in a moment mahler meant to pin her cunning figure spine backed to any tree nearby, warning her with a lift of his lip to press him no further. but here she might hear the thudding rush of blood in his brain and his loins, her scent fogging him, hook-pierced through the mouth and dragged ever nearer;
the light taupe of laurel's ruff against the charcoal dip of his head. a growl as he flung his own tail in a proud arc over his hips, scarred muzzle dipping in an almost-sample of her collarbone;
an eternity to will himself back, tattered ears falling like towers against the bones of his heavy skull; he thrust his face close until he could smell the sweetness of her addled breath:
"they are undeserving. but they do not matter. only you. only the children you bring home to raise here, laurel."
not me, not i, spare yourself the cup of me.

Everything about him screamed with the conflict that he felt. Her waiting moments before she would touch him were as to not press him too far too fast, but also to create a suspension. It was better if he realised on his own accord that it was him; that it should be him.

For a moment he seemed to give in, tail arching and nearing so close so that he could almost taste her. Her nose gently reached forward so that her lips almost touched his fur; she could feel the edges tickle against her but did not pursue yet.

The conflict pushed him back, but only a little before he pressed his face close again to breathe in her scent. Laurel was torn; torn between telling him all of her vulnerabilities, telling him she was scared, explaining why she was so afraid of the men outside these borders. On the other hand she wanted to keep this mask. She knew that her scent drove men wild and she didn't want Mahler to lay with her out of pity. She wanted him to because she seduced him and because he saw what she saw in the future. Because he wanted her pups to be worthy and deserving, too.

His words did not make sense to Laurel, but she knew it was only because he did not know what she knew. They will tear me apart, Laurel admitted with a tremble in her voice. They might not matter, but they would leave a heavy indent on her life, and on that of her children; on Rivenwood. That was not the most important, though. They're unworthy. Her pride, returned, and it was audible in her voice. He was unwilling, he was a king, and so only he was worthy in her presence.

Laurel drew herself closer with a wave of her tail to spread more of her intoxicating scent around herself. You... Only you are worthy. You deserve good things, Mahler. We both deserve good things. A whisper, only for his ears. Laurel reached out her head to try and place it where it had been before, in his neck; it felt so safe. Outside, they would grab her scruff and force her face into the mud.

she plagued him with her words. mahler felt his control slip, again, a foot at the edge of a high cliff — for a moment he envisioned her at his side. but the vision paled and fell to ash, for mahler knew now that despite the hungry wants of his body, and how very much he wished to be led astray for a time — that it was a weakness of flesh that would end when her heat did, and then wylla would see he had lied, would see his children growing in another woman and leave rivenwood.
sie ist gerade zurück.
ich werde sie nicht wieder verlieren.
"laurel," came the hoarse jut of his voice, ragged with desire, "i cannot."
he lifted his head from hers; he steadied himself on the good scents of tree and loam and rock, the fragrance of water drifting upon the wind.
"i vill not." more firmly, something tangible returning to him.
mahler gazed down at laurel in a tangle of lust and resignation and perhaps a thin edge of regret, for the masculinity in him that was prized and wanted; had he been so wanted before in these years without his love?
a step back; he gestured toward the borders, not wishing to hurt her with his words and rejection, but it came all the same: "please. let this be."
a heavy swallow, and then he was turning away from her, forcing himself through the miasma of her scent and his own misstep, the tightness of his shoulders suggesting he would not be drawn back by her voice; quickly, quickly, quickly, finding the thin trails of this natural place and disappearing, unless laurel should follow.

Though she could tell that she was wrapping him around her finger, she could feel him slip at the same time. Something was bothering him -- perhaps this Wylla? -- but Laurel cared only for herself. It was not desire for Mahler that drove her forward, but the vision of her face in the dirt, unable to talk, unable to scream, unable to breathe, while her body ached and the skin at her scruff was torn and --

He could not.

He pulled away. He would not. Again he gestured but all Laurel could feel was panic rise up as he slipped from her fingers. No, she snapped back, a harsh word in return to his gentle rejection. Don't walk away from me.

He started to walk away. Don't walk away from me! Screeched this time, with panic hot on her trail. She followed him immediately; her initial no wasn't a lie. You don't understand -- they'll -- I can't-! Choking, now, unable to breathe, unable to scream, feeling the ache in her body already. If he had not already stopped to listen to her choked out words, all she managed to struggle out, screamed in frustration and fear, Look at me when I talk to you! While she followed him, determined not to let him get away.

The beasts; she could already feel their hot breath on her neck and she could not -- she would not -- no! -- he needed to know why it could only be him. She wanted to tell him, but she couldn't find the words. Not while he was trying to hard to flee from her, just like she was trying to flee from the borders and the dangers that lay out there...

laurel pursued him, screaming.
hackles flared to horrible life; he rounded upon her, his own gaze filled now with immoral want and lashing anger. why did she not leave him be? he had said it would not be him.
something crazed in laurel's gaze, in her voice; it was not only the insistence of the season. and so the lavender eyes softened into a questioning expression, and not for the first time he considered the things that might have befallen her before she came to rivenwood. this was the way of things. the season came to a woman and she chose a father. it was a time that he had always seen marked by delight and desire.
not the desperation that seemed to lurk in her very marrow.
"vhat happened to you?" came the question all the same; he advanced with a slash of his tail through the air, though in the next his plume was furled for a tighter rein of control. 
her fragrance, still wafting upon every atom of air.
"this is a good thing, laurel." surrender, his stare urged, but he knew somehow that she would not. "i vill even give you a name! vintersbane, of duskfire glacier. our ally. he is a good man; he will not —" words tumbling end over end; he bit the inside of his jaw and stared at laurel.

There was rage in his expression when he turned around. Laurel did not mind that; his anger she could take. She knew where a man's anger lead and this time, it was okay. It would be okay. There was a mix of feelings rising up -- the all possessing fear to be thrown to the wolves, mixing with the sour sting of rejection. Laurel had always been second best. Second best to Saena, second best to Reek. Rejected by both because of who she was. The ugly, unloveable child who called herself a princess only to mask how utterly undesirable she was.

And she'd lost her desire to be desirable years ago, but still... Still, there was the little child who just wanted to be held and loved.

Through her desire to be loved Laurel could not identity a shred of feelings she might or might not have for Mahler. She just acted upon her need, with her instincts sailing high.

His anger seemed to dissipate as he seemed to connect pieces. Everything inside of Laurel screamed to not tell him a thing! But she knew she must, how else would he understand? Tears threatened but she knew it would only make her seem more like the pitiful child. She needed to be the strong temptress. She needed the control back.

Before she could find words to respond to him Mahler said a name, Wintersbane. But she did not know the man at all. It doesn't have to mean anything, Laurel said as she stepped closer imploringly, now with the pleading look in her eyes again. I don't know this man. I know you. I know you wouldn't- She choked up again, and after swallowing the lump in her head she said, whispered words, I'm afraid. Men, they'll do anything. I don't want to be humiliated again. A confession, one that weighed heavy on her heart. She had never admitted to anyone what Iliksis had done. Not even Indra. I'll do anything. If you'll turn me away, I'll- Who knew who she would meet between here and Wintersbane? Who knew what Wintersbane would do? Laurel stepped closer to Mahler again, trembling now, afraid, her confident mask dissipated under the truth of what Iliksis did up her, though there was determination left in her voice; quiet again, now, words meant only for his ears as she closed the gap between them now so that she could almost touch him again. Please, Mahler. Nobody has to know. I swear I would never tell anyone if that's what it takes.

again.
humiliated again.
again; it vibrated along the inside of his brain, expanding until he felt he did know. but he did not want to know; the nameless possibility horrified the man, who had never experienced such an urge in his life. so he did not understand it, and did not wish to explore it.
for if he was right, it explained the way laurel peeled in wallpaper strips before him; her wretched shrieking; the way that she begged him now, begged him to —
"keep you a secret?" mahler whispered incredulously, attempting to make sense of all her billowing words and the emotions that racked her face.
he had been wrong to suggest the man; he had merely drowned beneath the weight of her own unknowing, until he scrabbled madly for a tangible solution. but mahler did not know what else to do, or to say, for each time a proper sentence meant to be formed, her bouquet pushed it from the table of his mind as a cat-paw upon a waterglass.
"i vould not do that, laurel. and it vould be impossible to keep such a deceit, not vhen they and you and i vould all still live vithin rivenvood." and he would disallow her from taking them elsewhere, for now he must right the wrong he had done by nyx and elke and ciri, leading them to their doom upon moonspear.
a cup of his ears.
did laurel mean for him to somehow right a wrong for her, as well? as though his body might mollify the injustice. the stoneflower eyes gentled further, filling with a wary affection. "do you vant children, laurel? or do you vant to be — to, ach. to know that a man can touch you vithout hurting you?"

When he repeated her suggestion Laurel felt careful optimism in her heart. She wouldn't mind; if someone else would be hurt by him laying with her, then... She could keep her mouth shut. It didn't matter who fathered these children, so long as it was someone who would not harm her. The problem right in front of her was that Xan, he was gone, and Mahler, he was the closest she had to what Xan had been for her. The closest thing to her salvation.

Yet she had missed when he had repeated her suggestion how incredulous he had sounded, so badly did she hope it to be an option. Now he said he could not do that, could never do that. What irony that she should run into an honest man now, after a lifetime of deceit. Perhaps that was why she was so drawn to him.

Her expression visibly fell a little when he said he would not lie about such things.

Yet his gaze softened, to her surprise. She expected to be rejected once more, and while she was ready to fight for what she wanted, however ugly that might end, she dreaded the outcome. It was hard for her to grasp what he was asking at first, with how many daggers were already twisted into her heart, their hilts broken off violently. Did she want children, or did she want him to show her that she could be safe in the arms of a man..?

She looked away, eyes darting away from his face in shame as she thought about what -- how I pushed your face into the dirt and dug my teeth into your scruff and pushed and laughed and you screamed -his violent words hissed this time -- she wanted. She found in her heart that she wanted both. Laurel had always hated men for all they'd done to her, and now before her stood an honest man. A man who, like her, needed a second chance. A man who, like her, deserved to find peace. A quiet life. A man who would make a plan to rid the world of Merrick.

A man who could be trusted. And for all the things Laurel had been through, men were still a big part of her life, even besides her incessant compulsive needs to please them so they would not lash out. She realised with a shock she didn't want to lose Mahler, she wanted to fight not for children but for his children.

Layers peeled off and she was silent for some time while the air filled with her scent and his face was so close she could almost touch it. She was so tempted to reach out, but afraid to make him walk away again. Then eyes darted back to his face to answer quietly. I want children. I want children so much. And I want -- I want both those things. I want you. But she could not tell, not seen he'd made it so clear he was bound to others. Life seemed to never make it easy for her. I can't go out there, she said, voice trembling. I know it's a lot to ask. I'll do anything to make up for it. There's no one else I can turn to. No one I trust. Importing hazel eyes shone with emotion as she looked back at Mahler, willing him to understand her situation and how dire it was. She was in no place to pick a father for her children, and fear would dictate it would simply be the biggest asshole who managed to chase away all of the other men. Just thinking about that sent involuntary shivers down Laurel's spine.

laurel truly the most wretched, from the way her tones fell a gradient of emotion to the sheen of her eyes — mahler felt very much the sort of paladin she believed him to be, as if his touch was so righteous. he was flattered at once despite the flare of alarm in the back of his head that it should not be so.
it melded with her scent in the air, into a hydra of soft spears that cut from him his control — he wanted her. he admitted it to himself even as he stepped back, feeling very much that denying any aspect of what he now experienced would lead him to ruin.
mahler questioned every tonality of rein he could keep upon himself.
laurel was unwell.
he did not mean it beneath a veneer of judgement. a sense of justice against himself on her behalf cutting through his clouded wants. to guard her from men, not allow one to be such a way with her. "i cannot —" voice sliced away and then he closed his eyes and retreated further.
he saw her agony but did not understand it; he saw the deep wounded egress of her soul, and understood in some vague objective manner why she had chosen him, but it was not a reason to be as one during this time.
"i cannot give you children, and i cannot, i do not believe, change your hurt. such things are an act of love," sly lutheran wheatfields surging to fore in the earnest piety! "and — laurel, i have failed as a father. this vould only be a contract, and i vill not do that to children. again."

; -; <3

As he stepped back Laurel instantly stepped forward, as though afraid to make him leave again. She wanted him to stay more than anything else in the world, wanted, needed... She needed him. She wanted to be there for him, with him, and it tore her heart apart. Once more she realised she had wedged herself into a position where a man loved someone else. Now, all she saw when she looked at him was pity. A pity that she had tried so hard to avoid. Laurel prided herself in the ability to manipulate men, but when was really the last time she had done that? It was well before she was a mother. And Mahler - she did not want to manipulate him.

She wanted a quiet life with him. A life where they could both forget about the past and just... Live.

But it seemed that his ghosts had not been left behind. And she could not tell him of her feelings, for he would place this Wylla above them every time.

But she also could not leave. She knew she'd resent him for the rest of their lives if she let him send her away to another man. He said he could not, even though she knew he was a liar for it. He did not want. That was something entirely different.

Such things are an act of love. It pierced right through her heart, like a dagger violently plunged in and twisted, twisted, twisted until the hilt fell off. Just another dagger in unloveable Laurel's heart. The world would never cry for her.

She did not even notice when he said he couldn't do it to the children. Laurel felt the overwhelming urge to attack him, to drive him away, to make sure that he would be gone from her life forever.

Mating was an act of love, so you see, he could never do that with her.

I don't want that either, she murmured, words so quiet they were lost mostly on the winds, even despite their closeness; words she didn't really want him to hear.

Don't worry, I get it, Laurel said then, her voice sharp and her eyes shining with indignation. No man has ever loved me, so what a fool I was to think that anything would ever really change. This ridiculous utopia of living a happy life is nothing but a stupid dream. Her face scrunched up ugly with emotion as she shot her own daggers, much less gentle than his. It felt to Laurel as if the dance had ended as soon as she bared her soul; another lesson that such things should never happen. Yet, they were still in a holding pattern where he did not want to do it, yet the right of leaving Rivenwood to find sex elsewhere was Laurel's worst fear. But Indra...

He could not, must not - and she must.

Yet she knew she would always resent him for it. The first months of Rivenwood now felt like a fleeting dream which now had their shine violently ripped away. It was all just fake. Just words. Just nothing, in the end, like everything in this world.

She just wanted to be loved. She just wanted to be someone to someone.

Already Laurel regretted saying what she said. All of it. Suggesting it meant nothing -- it did, would -- and saying that she understood and that that was just her life. She didn't want his pity, that was the whole point. She just wanted to trust someone again, because she really couldn't go on like this.

I hope you will be very happy together. Words spat out, fuelled by her emotions. I guess at least one of us gets the quiet life we wanted. It's good to know you're just like everybody else, willing to throw the rest of us to the vultures for your own desires. It was clear from the way he eyes shone and the way she clenched her jaw that she was hurting and that get words were fuelled by her anger and hurt. Laurel then resolutely turned around, away from him.

She clenched her jaw. Her entire body was stiff. She knew she could not keep her tears in much longer, wouldn't be able to stop them if he would follow her, but somehow she knew he wouldn't.

Even when she had not been in heat, she had asked him to escort her to Larksong grotto. Now he sent her alone towards a man she did not know. His true colours were starting to show, Laurel thought bitterly to herself. But at least you'll always have me, dearest. A choked sob, held back as she walked away, leaving to cry alone if he did nothing.

<3;;;;;;;;;;

mahler would place wylla above all, for the simple reasoning that he had never done so before. he owed her a great deal of respect ungleaned the past years; he knew it surely as the day was long that he loved her beyond the promise of motherhood. 
her season had come and gone; he had seen wylla in it.
the promise of laurel was aura'ed rose-pink, redolent, inviting; inviting to all of him; his failures, his weariness, his dead hopes for a new beginning. that last selfish part of mahler for something more than himself, something worth the tears of others, if only in the end his own pride be soothed. 
but it was not a way to live. not a way to be.
laurel's words were filled with a loathing he had not expected from the spun-sugar appearance; he stood before the glowing golden idol of her and was laid low. but it was the truth, was it not? mahler knew with all of himself that he would be able to justify his possession of her upon the worth and weight of her own testimony; that it must be him, that it was only he she trusted — how could he then turn her to the quick mad dominance of strange men outside his borders.
heart a galloping cadence by the time that she had finished —
"i have nothing, laurel." whatever she thought, he would not allow it to be that: the concept that he flourished in joy and left her to wallow in misery. "i have children i love and a voman i love, whom i hurt a hundred times over," a pause, gaze tightening at the edges of his lavender stare "— but did you know it is not enough? i have ruined things irreparably. ve cannot allow our own miseries begin a new generation. it is not right."
he watched down toward her, subdued, exhausted, suddenly, the erotic and the profane subsiding until it was only a low spice to his pulse.
"vhat if i asked somevone to go vith you? not me, just — an escort. a voman." he searched her face, begging inside himself that she take at least to heart this token;
it could not be him.

She stopped in her tracks when he said he had nothing. She glanced over her shoulder when he described that he loved his children and that he loved a woman but that he had damaged things beyond repair. This was a story that Laurel could get behind; she'd ruined her own life and those of her children when she had lost Indra. Yet she had let it go, had let them go. She was here for a new start, rather than clinging on desperately and foolishly to old wretched things.

The problem with irreparable things was that they were still broken, however way you looked at it. The only relation she'd never broken was Indra, but all others she had left far behind because there was nothing but broken glass there. Nothing but shards to pick up. With Xan, she'd given it another chance but in the end it came down to the same thing; she cut herself.

Where she wanted to leave behind all the broken glass and blow a new object, he just wanted to roll around in the shards and cut himself some more. It was clear to Laurel that this woman he loved did not love him the same way, for otherwise she would've been a part of their pack. Laurel was unaware that what she was accusing him of was much like what he'd been accused of by Wylla; what had spurred some of this devotion in the first place.

You are a fool for holding on to splintered bones that will only stab your gums for the rest of your life, Laurel said as she turned towards him once more, the pain of her words written on her face, but her voice calmer now. If you will be left with nothing at the end of this it's because you chose it to be that way. We could have had everything. We could have been happy, here. Rivenwood was supposed to be a place to find peace, not to hold onto a past that brings us nothing. I believed that, when you said it first. Laurel sounded solemn yet resentful. They could've been happy, but he chose to wallow in the mistakes of his past. Broken glass starting to mar the part between them now, too.

The trust a distant dream, as he offered to provide her with an escort. While it was intended well, it brought forth an insulted scoff from Laurel. I don't need any more to be a part of this humiliation. I will go alone, she said solemnly as she looked away. Laurel felt oddly calm, even though she was still seething -- self-loathing the highest, then hate for his choices, frustration, pain, grief, all muddled together at the end -- but at least for now she had recollected her calm so she couldn't further debase herself.

mahler wanted to demand how she could know the promise of rivenwood when she had not been here to build it. it was in the creation of this lastingly peaceful place that he had discovered he would never enjoy its calm. moses at the edge of the promised land, watching his people move into the greensward and himself forbidden to enter.
yet, peace in this, too; the knowledge that mahler could still provide this for others until the end of his days, and the satisfaction in that which marred the jut of pain, blunted it. humility in service, as should have been his way since the end of stigmata and the beginning of his own chapters.
mahler had not meant to humiliate her further; his charcoal ears cupped back, and he turned away from her at once. this time, he felt she would not follow, and took himself away and off. a half dozen steps and he wished to look back, saltpillar against her own bitterness.
but the gargoyle did not, only felt the grip of laurel leave his flesh the further away he moved, until what remained was the stark stained-glass of her hurt, hardening stare.
she was not wrong, not truly. it was only that peace and calm came saddled with a set of demands he could not fulfill, and in the resonant rightness of her voice, he could find no absolution for himself.

Once before she had tried to storm off, and he had kept her here with his words, with threads of hope shimmering in a sun that grew ever dimmer and paler. Now he had no words left for her. None of her anger and accusations were given even a glance, it seemed to Laurel, as he skimmed over them and let them wash over him as he was no more than a puppet, no more than an onlooker rather than a participant in this conversation. It made Laurel feel angry and for a moment she wanted to attack him, to tear him apart — to provoke him. Perhaps it was because of her anger boiling up again or perhaps it was because she was tired of being walked away from. Or perhaps it was because if he chased her out, then at least she could keep telling herself that it was the fault of every pack she had ever been in that she was no longer with them; that it was his fault that she left.

Now instead she felt trapped. She wasn't allowed to stay here, so she must go out and all she could do was expose herself to the outside world. She wanted so badly to take someone with her, but she knew she couldn't. It would destroy whatever shreds of pride Laurel had left.

The dejectedness in his posture frustrated her beyond words; it was the epitome of all she had said, all she had accused him of. He just stood there and took it. Perhaps because he knew that her words were true. Laurel was so sick and tired of men who were just holding out for perfection — and emphasising along the way that she was not it — rather than finding what would make them happy. She was so done with men, and had been for a long time, and yet, somehow, there was always a new one who would wrap their words around her and drag her in with promises of happiness, of peace, of good things.

And sooner or later, it always crashed down.

As he began to turn so did she, unable to stand there and watch him walk out of her life in so many different ways all at once. She wanted to... To reach out to him and tell him again that he deserved to be happy, to attack him and make him hurt her to make him show something resembling emotion, to scream at his face that they were having a conversation over here...

But in the end she did none of it, could do none of it. It was just too painful, and it was clear that he did not care about her, like everybody else in this world.

In the end she shelved it as just another disappointment, and as she turned around, she heard the sound of honeyed venom whispering in her ear, she could feel his hot breath on her neck, she could feel his teeth graze the cups of her ears. Well then, love, let's get going. I cannot wait to see what he will do to you. You are so generous, my dearest, that you would provide me with such a pleasurable show at long last. Laurel grit her teeth and though tears found their way down her cheeks, she did not cry, she did not sob.

She would not give Mahler the satisfaction as he walked away to know that he had hurt her so deeply.