you shouldn’t walk where the hemlock grows

She should have known the time was coming sooner than she’d expected. When Faolain left for a surveilling walk around the higher parts of the Ridge, she had done so entirely out of protective instinct. There was nothing she could do at Rivaini’s side except wait, and she did enjoy the time spent waiting with her companion, even if she felt a little useless. But sometimes her need to guard made her too antsy to stand still, and it was on these occasions Faolain would expel her energy by trotting a wide circle around the Ridge’s meadow. She could work the tension out, watch for any dangers, and give Rivaini a break from her rather tightly-wound company before she drove the silver bay insane.

Since her battle with Rougaru, Faolain’s wounds had almost completely healed. She still had the slightest limp in her front right foreleg, but she forgot about it most of the time. It went unnoticed until she stepped awkwardly or picked up any gait faster than a trot. She didn’t think about it at all as she walked. Faolain was too absorbed in her environment to be grateful for the lack of distracting aches and pains. She almost did not hear Rivaini’s call from the meadow, the sound simply bouncing off the trees around her like the cry of any of the impressive number of birds residing in the jungle. After another step, however, she stopped, and realized what it was she had just heard.

Panic bloomed in her chest and Faolain spun on her heels. It took her a few minutes to wind her way back down the steep stairs of the Ridge. She flew towards an area of the slope where the ground leveled off before dropping again; a ledge of sorts, where she sometimes stood to look over the meadow and the lake. It was a good place to observe the herd (or Rivaini specifically, these days) without straying too far away. She was prepared to leap bodily off of this ledge and land on the trail beneath it, injured leg be damned. But as she rounded a switchback and the earth flattened before her, Faolain slid to a halt. Rivaini was struggling to top the lip of earth, her hide dark with sweat, sides heaving.

Faolain raced forward again as her red companion hauled herself atop the ledge completely, and as Rivaini went down, Faolain braced herself at her side to soften the fall. The black mare had stupidly assumed Rivaini had encountered some danger in the meadow that had caused her to cry out, but she now saw that this was not the case. The scent of birth surrounded the red mare heavily, and her barrel rippled visibly with contractions. Faolain’s own legs folded, and she joined Rivaini on the ground, dark lips brushing gently against her temple and cheek. Though Faolain was smaller, she curled at Rivaini’s back as if to envelope her, draping her neck across the painted withers. She kept her touch light - she did not know what exactly Rivaini was going through, or if touch at all would help or hurt - and said nothing. Instead of words, she just breathed gently and rhythmically against Rivaini’s temple, hoping to slow the pregnant mare’s own heaving breath and calm her down.

mare | black | 14hh | akhal-teke