Sawtooth Spire Will I ever be more than I've always been?

for days mahler had stayed as close to wylla as he might, careful of her snapping temper and accompanying teeth. the gargoyle departed only to assuage his own protectiveness with a tight patrol of the surrounding area, returning to the woman's densite when he had finished.
wylla had not wished aid in her whelping. this tormented mahler beneath an undercurrent of guilt for the relief he had felt. unsure of how well he might perform his tasks beneath the impending weight of fatherhood, mahler contented himself with an outdoor vigil, laid in the melting snow to ward away any well-wishers.
the practiced ears of a midwife knew the sounds of any birth, and the doktor, who had brought his small wrap of necessary herbs all the same, shifted closer to the mouth of the whelping shelter.
breath held, he listened to wylla's sounds, marveling at her restraint. auds cupped forward with curiosity and wonder as first the copper tang of birth unfurled into the air, accompanied quickly by a brief retch and then the rich scent of milk.
mahler rocked back upon his haunches, unable to veil the grin of purest pride that blossomed onto his dour features. at least one cub had made its ungainly way into the world. his child. their child.
mahler grunted beneath his breath at the sting of delighted tears behind his lilac eyes. the stirrings within the den had quieted, and he lay himself back down again. like wylla, mahler suspected there was a high possibility of only a single pup being born to them, but it mattered not.
but not long after, the gargoyle was surprised by the woman rousing once more, extending his broad muzzle toward the mouth of her shelter. another? the same warm and blessed feeling coursed through mahler; he beamed again, but the elation faded as once more the innate midwife surged to the fore, and suggested there had been no crying, no whining, none of the distressed little sounds made by newborns foisted into the cold world.
and as he had feared, a slow panic built icewater in his veins. mahler blinked. "vylla?" this was her domain now, he but a courtier to her hallowed sanctum. the eisen understood the dance of the hovering mother, his own requirements to keep his invasions saved for some days yet.
but as the moments ticked by, and nary a whimper floated from the den, mahler felt his hearing swallowed by the cadence of his own rapid heartbeat. and then, despite his instinct to avoid the well-earned slash of wylla's fangs across his face, mahler pressed closer, warily, and searched for the small bundles huddled against her side.