God, she couldn't wait to be rid of the little parasite.

Pregnancy had done nothing to soften the overo mare toward children and it was with extreme prejudice that Vanya kept as far away from the rugrats in Paradise as possible, always quick to warn away their high pitched presences with pinned ears and bared teeth. She had no use for the crotchgoblins of other mares, and only minor use for the one she had created herself.

If one thing was for certain, she wasn't about to make the same mistake next fall.

In all of the time she'd spent muttering about the inconvenience of it all - the discomfort, the mood swings, the cravings - she'd somehow neglected to do much thinking about the birth itself. Vanya had just sort of assumed that nature would take over and her body would just figure it out and deposit the parasite onto the ground and that would be that.

What she was realizing, however, as pain gripped her body so tightly a repressed scream whistled from between clenched teeth, was that this could not be further from the truth. One slender foreleg stretched out to pound the ground until the contraction passes and she whips the elegant arch of her neck around to glare at the swell of her belly. The impending birth of her first child had forced her stomach into the strangest shape she'd ever seen on a living mare. With ears pinned and venom in her words she hisses at the swell. "If you kill me you little devil, I swear to god I will haunt you until my last breath."

Hours pass before the roan mare lowers herself to the ground; by then, much of the vegetation in her chosen spot has been trampled flat from her pacing and stomping and sweat coated her entire body. She couldn't help but wonder if something was wrong as it felt as though she had been at this stage for eons, the tiny nubs of the child's hooves alien beneath her tail. Time had ceased to have any relevant meaning for her and she was slowly coming to terms with her own impending death, for she could see no other outcome in this scenario. Awkwardly she shifted her weight to prepare for the next wave but something changed.

Vanya could feel a ripping sensation somewhere deep in her body as the contraction seized her entire body. This time, it seemed to be enough, and the broad shoulders of her child finally managed to escape the narrow shape of her pelvis with a gut clenching slip. After this, the process is far faster, and by the time the child slips free of her womb with a rush of blood and fluid.

She remained laying on her side, panting with relief and the minor ecstacy that comes with narrowly escaping death. The child at her rear moves, flailing free of the sack that had held it from nigh on a year. Vanya can feel it there, and knows that the reality of her rash decision all those months ago in the Fall is about to become much more real. As the dark colored colt jostles behind her, both fluted ears pin against her poll, but she does not rise from her position on the ground just yet. Not only does she feel weak and shaky, but she almost, childishly, hopes that if she just doesn't acknowledge it, it will go away, like a monster under the bed.

Undaunted by his dam's lack of regard, the strong colt struggles free of the sack that holds him and struggles upward onto his feet. Even at this age, the elegance imparted by his mother is evident, but is largely overriden by the size imparted by his sire. His coat is dark, unmarred by the white his dam sports, save one tiny star. Like her, however, he is confident already and with a prodding of his muzzle at her belly and an insistent bleat, he finally get as reaction from the prone mare.

"Don't touch me." The words are harsh as she spits them in a kneejerk reaction to the foal's touch, but as her eye slits open, there is an obvious softening to her features that she cannot hide. Unable to take her eyes from the colt that wobbles uncertainly next to her, the exhausted mare rises to her feet, her body aching with pain. Belatedly, she gingerly begins to clean her son, her face unknowingly still glowing with wonder.

She did not want him, and perhaps, still does not; but he is hers. It is not the handsome stallion's face that peers at her with the confusion of the newly born, but her own dark face and dark eyes. He is perfect, and he is her own.