Morrigan

Soljor and Magnus's herd had weathered the storms of winter - both the literal and the figurative - and welcomed the arrival of spring with the hope and eager hearts that only new life could bring. With warm fingers, the sun shattered the layers of ice that covered steams and lakes, and softened the layers of snow and the hard, frozen earth they lay buried beneath them. But winter was still breathing when the first contraction struck the silver black mare, and by the time her legs folded beneath her for the final moments, a light snow was swirling through the frigid air.

The ashen flakes were first to greet the filly into the world, flecking her white skin with frozen kisses. But Morrigan was there moments later, warming the cold, wet body with her tongue as she cleaned blood and afterbirth from the spotted coat. There was no sight sweeter than the pair of dark eyes that followed her as she stood, and the strong - if uncertain - legs that struggled to stand. It mattered little to Morrigan that the filly resembled her father as strongly as Nemain did; a child whose pale coat looked out of place against her dam's dark side when she nursed. Her daughter was healthy, and whole - and that was more than she had dared to hope for.

Mother and daughter spent much of that first night huddled so closely together that they seemed to share the same breath, the same body, the same heartbeat. But as soon as the sun had begun to lighten the sky, Morrigan rejoined the herd with her newborn filly at her side. She could see Nemain keeping vigil at her father's side, and smiled at the pair as she approached, nosing the small, spotted figure of her daughter forward to present her to her family.

"Her name is Nyneve," she spoke in a soft, reverent voice, her ears savoring the sound of the name as it left her lips. Nyneve. Eve. A fitting name for a filly born during the twilight of winter, and into the dawn of spring.