Inka

A secret part of her had been dreading this day. Now that it was here, it was plainly obvious that the deaths of Het Vuur and Sterre had affected her more deeply than she liked to admit.

It started quietly at first. Inka had been grazing the lush late spring grasses on the lower slopes of the peak, along with Adelheid and Diamant. Jetta, of course, was nowhere to be seen: she had spent only a few days with them in the prairie before taking leave to visit Macabre, an old family friend. Inka had been sorry to see her eldest daughter go. She relied on the young mare in all sorts of ways, far more than she cared to admit.

The first pangs were mild, as was the accompanying anxiety. The Friesian mare did not let on what was happening; she kept a calm demeanor as best she could, and after instructing Adelheid to look after Diamant for a while, excused herself for some "private time".

It was later, when she was on her side in a sheltered bed of clover and pine needles, that it really began to grip her. Inka had given birth three times before in her life, but on none of those occasions had she felt quite so helpless as she did now. Images of Sterre's body laying in a pool of blood flashed through her mind over and over, drawing Inka's breath out faster and faster until she was on the brink of hyperventilation. It could happen to you, her brain taunted her. She groaned and writhed, her big body lathered in sweat, and might have cried if she had the spare energy. The pain of labor was unbearable this time, worse than she had ever remembered it being. Dying would have almost been kind.

Jetta, where are you? I'm so scared...

She must have blacked out at some point, for the next thing Inka was aware of was the twitter of birdsong and a dull ache between her legs. She continue to lay on her side for some minutes, staring blankly at the clusters of clover in front of her face, uncaring that there were pine needles clinging to her fur. The pain is gone, she finally realized. And her body, though still slick with sweat, no longer felt feverish.

She summoned the energy to sit up and look behind her. A tiny foal lay on its side covered in a thin, translucent film of afterbith. Thankfully the sac had torn from its face, allowing it to breathe; she could see its tiny pale nostrils flaring to take in its first breaths.

Her knees shook with the effort to lift herself, but finally Inka stood and - after shaking free most of the leaf litter that clung to her sweaty body - turned to clean her child. Her last child.

When finally she had cleaned all the afterbirth away, Inka took a step back to admire her son. He was not dark, like all the others; his fur was a rich brown like autumn leaves, but for the white that crept up his legs and splashed his face, turning his eyes a vibrant blue. And his rump... Blanketed across his hindquarters was a mosiac of spots, just like those of his sire. Inka's eyes filled with tears.

He was perfect.