Little Goat Mountain bewusstsein

they were either very good at this game, or quite bad it. either way, mahler found himself hopelessly ensnared, lured by wylla's uncommon openness enough to share his own. he took no offense to her admission: not only had he reminded the she-wolf of a painful time, she was a lone mother, and he a powerful sort that could easily mete out death to a child.
but once more she had seen past mahler to himself, to the intentional good he had wanted to be in tiercel's life, no matter how brief. "i called her duckling, you know."
the gargoyle joined wylla a with a low smile of pride for her find, pulling an aged piece of ivory upon which he whet his teeth a thoughtful moment.
again the springing pain, but had he not wished to be close enough to share this part of himself? and now here they were, not bonded in the way mahler might have envisioned, but the question demanded an answer all the same.
"i am good vith children because vonce upon a time, i vas a father." if she laid her eyes upon him now, she might see the slight narrowing of his gaze, the twitch of the long muscle laid against his jawbone; all that he could not hold back of his sorrow.
"the fever took them." he did not want to speak of marigold. idly nosing the bone for which he had lost his taste, mahler turned the focus of his lilac eyes upon wylla. "vere you ready to be a mother?" she had not done a poor job of it; he only asked for he did not know of tiercel's beginning.