Sleepy Fox Hollow and hoping made you hurt more

had this been anyone else other than wylla, mahler might have found himself irritated at her refusal to allow his help. 
but it was she, and so mahler spent his hours beforehand traversing the hollow, attempting to find herbs he had stashed away long ago. for each two inedible or ruined caches, the gargoyle discovered one that held vibrantly preserved leaves. he carried all he had salvaged back to the moss-covered log where wylla had made her den.
mahler trailed her as she marched, understanding that she traversed through labour pangs.
and when she entered the den to keep him at arm's length, he hung back; he forced himself to be well and lay down as the night began to shift the sky to darkness.
once he patrolled.
once he hunted.
once he called for their eldest, telling phaedra that the time had come for her little siblings to be born.
listening to wylla pant and moan was a singular torment, but he forced himself into the midwife's mind and ascertained that despite the birth's clear difficulty, it was not dire.
he paced.
the heavens lightened.
and wylla called for him.
mahler was gentle, careful; he remembered too well how she had scarred him the last time. first his seeking muzzle, then the broad shape of his head, and next the expanse of his shoulders. he would not enter all the way into the den.
three of them, he realized as his eyes adjusted. two boys. and a third, a girl, though she was tucked away from the others and —
green?
mahler's countenance changed ever so slightly from doting, relieved father to a brief confusion. he inched closer to sniff at the child, noting that she carried no scent of sickness and ate as well as her brothers. "how vas her birth?" the gargoyle asked hoarsely of wylla, torn between concern and his great shimmering love for her.