lane had revealed that wintersbane was the father of her children, but she had not elaborated on the nature of them to one another. and mahler would not ask, as much for politeness as not truly wishing to know if the man he regarded highly as his brother now made the same misstep he had gone first to do.
for lane's sake, the gargoyle hoped that the tundrian would make the affable woman his proper wife, and have no other. he had learned — long late, far too late — that this was the only way to grant a true stability.
it was neither here nor there, none of his business, except that even his first meeting with lane had left the impression of her genuine nature. logic to be a battle-medic, introspective, and pleasant. she deserved more than what he himself had ever done for wylla and for nyx.
projection.
shaking himself away, mahler scolded himself for such inner croakings of doom in time to begin his agreeing nod. but the nature of pregnancy had gagged his gravid companion. he was not concerned, only upon his feet in a moment and at the side of the duskfire woman, though not so close to touch. "please sit." voice neither firm nor wan. he stepped aside decisively, and this time scanned the trees for the birch sap, just beginning to seep in gobules along the paperbark.
it would taste of alpine mint, he hoped; lips sticky with it, he carried back a bit of it and set the small sticky orb near her paw. "you may find that this taste helps vith the nausea," and no more, hovering close but with a small berth, an unofficial nursemaid in his most official capacity.