Noctisardor Bypass ich muss dir sagen

wylla turned toward mahler with the cardboard reception he had expected. but somehow, despite the fact that the gargoyle finally understood, much too late — he could not stop the little eddies of pain inside him, or the ones that ate at the back of his eyes.
the part of mahler that always chose to walk away or to say nothing, the proud rot charring its way through their relationship: it spoke now, insisting that wylla did not care. why bring vulnerability to the woman only for her to cast it away? or trample it, more likely. 
but it was deserved. and it was in knowledge of this deserving that mahler pressed on. 
now he grappled with blurting out his words so they could both be done and he could retire among his clipped flowers, the piles of blue and red and sage-green.
"vill you come and talk vith me? please?"
the ignominious we need to talk or i have to tell you something felt too dire and too demanding, and at any rate mahler —
oh, what was the point of saying anything at all? and yet he waited, finally flicking the shadow-smudged lilac of his eyes toward the cold, distant sun of her gaze.