Phoenix Maplewood string in my hands tethered to faceless friends

fatherhood.
mahler, who saw nothing wrong with how their first farflung meeting had gone, transferred his attention more solidly at the mention of the word. the man was ruefully, painfully binary in all of his meandering thoughts, and for a moment was only silent. the wolf here was not feminine, the curve of flank somehow decorative or —
unwanted, to hear it now. and while mahler did not truly grasp all corners of this missive, he found pity inside himself for a man who was called otherwise.
"there are remedies that can be administered in the early veeks," the midwife opted to say. and others that might prevent it from occurring again. to scar the inside of one's self. he could not suggest this, knowing that each season, many died in different lands and maybe this one as well, from such agitations against their own wombs.
in all his years, mahler had not come across a plant which might end such agonies and bring peace of mind.
"vintersbane is not a man who is tameable. but he is a provider. a varrior."
would these things bring his baleful young companion some measure of peace?