In the dim glow provided by a near-absent moon, the world has been reduced to vague shapes painted by shadow— a blackness that all but threatens to swallow the pale mother and her radiant son. Surrounded by a sea of oblivion on all sides, Ariah has never felt more vulnerable than when she hears the muffled thuds of heavy tread over soft earth. But she has never felt
braver, either. Curling protectively around Shepard, the ashen woman stamps a hoof in unspoken warning, her ears twisting back into the unruly halo of her mane. She may feel as bare and brittle as a leaf in autumn, but she will fight to protect the newly-born colt. And though that sacrifice will be no more a conscious choice than the fierce love that she feels... the small, slender mare will give up her life for his.
Oh, Ariah. These two words penetrate the veil of her fear in a heartbeat, soothing the snarling beast of her instincts with their soft notes. Blinking her clouded eyes, Ariah steps closer and nickers with relief when the familiar patterns of gold and white emerge from the darkness.
"Suleiman," she breathes, tucking her head into the hollow of the tall stallion’s throat and all but collapsing into him. With the last of the adrenaline draining from her body, she begins to tremble, and it takes both his strength and hers to keep her swaying body upright. Even the fatigue of swimming from the mainland to the Crossing and then Tinuvel cannot compare to the weariness that follows birth; a weariness that suffuses every muscle and bone with lead.
And yet, at the same time— even the boundless joy she’d felt that day cannot compare to the euphoria she feels now.
He's perfect. Humming her agreement, Ariah laughs lightly into the warmth of Sul’s skin.
"He’s yours," she offers as if in explanation, knowing the truth even before her appraising gaze finds the boy who hovers anxiously at her flank. The splashes of white and sandy gold of his coat are his father’s, but it’s more than that. She sees Suleiman in the gentle kindness of his gaze, too. And in the tiny worry-lines that furrow his pale face. The uncertainty, of course, is hers— but so is the curiosity that inevitably coaxes him forward to brush whiskered lips over the plane of his father’s chest, and then lower. After investigating between the stallion’s front legs for a few moments (and even nipping gently once or twice), Shepard finally backs away with a soft snort. Ducking beneath the curve of his dam’s belly, the champagne colt finds the answer to his hunger there instead.
If she could, Ariah would watch their son forever; the erratic dance of his short tail, the steady rise and fall of his sides, the flick of one ear. But each moment that she gives to him feels as if it’s stolen from Suleiman, and with a flush of guilt the dove-grey mare pulls back to meet her lover’s gaze, touching her lips gently to his cheek.
"I’ve been calling him Shepard," she offers to break the silence before realizing that her choice has deprived Sul of another connection to their child.
"I— I mean, it’s just— it’s what I thought of when I saw him. We can— we can name him whatever you like. If you would prefer something different, I mean, then—" In her concern and contrition, Ariah stumbles over her words until they become almost unintelligible. Pausing long enough to take a deep breath, she tries again.
"It doesn’t matter to me what his name is, Sul. Or at least... I’ll love him no matter what he’s called. Just like I’ll always love you— and all the more for giving him to me."