Heron Lake Plateau sleeping children are still flying

Quixote was feeling too many things to be able to sort them all out into nice little piles.  It was overwhelming.  It was Quixote's turn to pace around uncertainly.  There was zero appreciation for the miracle of birth or whatever the hell.  No, this was not supposed to be happening this way.  But Raven seemed to be doing okay, right?  She at least knew what to do.  At least until reality started to become, until the gravity of how this was currently turning settled in his stomach like something spoiled.

Anguish and panic were written across him in equal parts.  His children lay there, limp, apparently without a chance.  This wasn't allowed to happen.  He stepped forward carefully, crouching down to nuzzle her cheek with a helpless whine.  Why was this even a thing?  Why to them?  He desperately wanted nothing more than to be able to comfort her, to be able to curl up around her as if it would scare away any more foul luck, but at the same time, some buried instinct told him to not to stay close for too long.

What can I do? he whispered shakily, trying to focus on his mate, not the bodies of pups he'd never get to know.