In the past few days she had become more restless. She moved to and from the herd like a yo-yo, never quite sure whether she wanted to be near them or if she'd prefer to be alone. She knows the foal is due any day now and the whole prospect of actually giving birth is finally starting to dawn on her. Before now, she has had many other worries that took precedent. First she had just be uncomforable, then she had been gripped by great pain. When that subsided she became aware that her foal was not moving. Her child had been been so active in the beginning and then just seemed to suddenly go quiet - perhaps the worst of her pain signified its death. She'd be lying if she says she isn't worried but she voices her concerns to no one.

Dawn had just hit when the first ripple of a weak contraction signified the beginning of labour. She promptly moves off from the herd, instinct pushing her towards privacy in a secluded patch of trees. The last of the winter snow had long since disappeared from the spot and the ground is no longer waterlogged from the melt. As the sweat prickles along her flanks though, she almost wishes for the snow would return.

Twilight drags on, and the weak contractions continue, progressively getting stronged. She can finally feel the foal move and is uplifted though perhaps it is her own body prompting the shift rather than a live foal. She paces impatiently, snorting and pawing at the ground in discomfort. Every now and then she'll lay down only to get back up a few minutes later. She will be happy when it is all over provided the foal is well. Oh how she hopes the foal is well.

As the sun breaks over the horizon, she lays out on the ground, her ears straining to hear the tiny breaths of the child that lies on its left side behind her. She has not moved since the foal's arrival due to both instinct and exhaustion. They both needed this time to rest. Though the foal does not move, its tiny breaths fill her heart with joy - her worries were unfounded! In this moment of stillness, she wonders what would have happened if this had not been the case. Would Lyden have been disappointed or even angry with her? What would her father have thought of her failure? What does it matter now though? She has a healthy foal.....or a living one at least.

Rolling onto her front, she pushes herself upwards, swaying slightly through exhaustion. She nickers softly to the child, a colt she notes, with a pale coat possibly similar to Lyden's. No response comes from the colt. She moves closer, nickering a little louder this time, but not even an ear twitches in response. He just lays there, the rise and fall of his chest the only indication of life. Worry begins to flood back in once more as she moves to his side, urgenty licking the damp, broken birth sack from his face and neck but he remains limp at her touch and doesn't attempt to stir. One blue-green eye stares up at her - fixed and unmoving, seeing nothing. It's at this point, she begins to accept her reality. Her child is a lost cause.

She abandons her attempts to clean him and moves off a little, dropping her head to graze. She watches the rise and fall of his sides, waiting patiently for it to cease. She won't leave him but she cannot bring herself to end his suffering either. His breaths become heavier, quicker. Perhaps this is the end.

She edges closer, just a couple of feet between them, wondering if she should offer him some sort of comfort. She continues to just watch though, locked in a stalemate of confusion until the damp, pale bundle gives an almighty fling of his neck and rolls onto his front with a gurgled squeak. She sees the mismatch of his eyes now as he blinks - one turqouise with a fixed, unseeing pupil and the other, a pale, glassy blue and focused entirely on her.