Phoenix Maplewood lügnerisch

as she spoke, mahler settled to his haunches. a wind rose, cuffing 'round his shoulders at the granite fur there. "i know how to take care of mothers," he said gently. "but i am not a mother. nor vill i ever experience motherhood, or anything that it entails." not the growing of one's belly, nor the pain often complained of through one's hips, nor labour.
nor loss.
"so perhaps it is both: you do not need to be a mother to know how to tend them, but only in being one can you truly understand."
he considered the rest of what lane had said: battle medicine. "it takes a a quick mind that can hone itself to broken bones, cut arteries, slashed throats. not every medic is able to do these things." and it had been a long, long while since mahler had tended someone in the heat of conflict or the air of war. 
he was thus, impressed in return. "i do not believe i have met anyvone vith your skills before. mine are far too rusted to be of use these days." a twinkle to his stoneflower eyes.