Phoenix Maplewood string in my hands tethered to faceless friends

the scent of duskfire in the berrywood forest. 
mahler came to stand amid the fruit-heavy branches and the frigid alpine scent of sap he had once used. he had come here to collect more, collect more, collect more — dutiful despite its frailty. 
dutifully he leant forward to lap some into a bolus that settled against the inside of his cheek. he felt the soothe of it low and deep at once, and sighed wearily, no small measure of relief.
but he was not alone here.
with the scent, the thin twining vine of something that felt rosy and green. new life.
a tiny, pretty creature with a man's coldness and serpentine silver. alone, like mahler. rounded sides and hard muscles. youthful until one beheld the hardbit resentment that life had drilled into yet another man.
mahler cleared his throat.
"the last time i saw you, it vas in the sunspire. sick. your father came to save you from us." dry, no judgement passed, only the wandering observation of a memory that the sight had evoked. it was comforting to see individuals you might have once known, if only for a brief, harried time.
the lilac eyes did not dip to the swelled flanks. mahler only looked out across the fecund maplewood again. "is a congratulations in order?" he asked softly, considering only that his brother in the glacier had become prolific.