“Shhh, Foxglove, it’s okay. You’re gonna be okay,” Firethorn cooed, trying her best to hush her sister’s frantic sobs. “If I can do it, so can you.”

Judging by the expression on her face, these words didn’t comfort Foxglove much – they both knew Firethorn was the stronger sister emotionally and physically – but she seemed to steel herself somewhat and the sobs died down into quiet whimpers. She blinked the tears from her soft, hazel-brown eyes and pressed her head into the frosty ground with a gasp as another contraction gripped her. Firethorn lowered her head to bump her nose gently against her sister’s damp cheek.

“Not long now,” she whispered.

A twig snapped behind them. With a start, Firethorn’s head snapped to the side to locate the source of the noise. They were hidden away amongst the trees that the bay melted into, but that didn’t mean another resident of the Bay or perhaps even a stray predator might happen upon them if they wandered close enough to scent the birth or hear Foxglove’s muffled pain.

But it was not the eyes of a hungry wolf or an innocent bystander that stared back at her, but the big doe eyes of tiny golden foal. Firethorn snorted, and shot the young colt a look that said he better be quiet if he didn’t want to get in trouble. He bowed his head and shuffled closer to his mother, butting his head apologetically against her hind legs as she returned her attention to her sister.

It wasn’t long before Foxglove’s contractions began to grow closer and closer together, and eventually Firethorn was required to coach her through the pain as she pushed her own foal out into the world. When at last the tiny, wet bundle hit the ground both sisters smiled as relief washed over them – a momentary celebration.

Exhausted, Foxglove could barely lift her head to peer down at her new-born daughter, so Firethorn approached the filly first. She nudged the foal gently, and with soft caresses began to lick away the mucus that covered her nose and mouth. She was a gorgeous little thing – bright gold, just like her own son, but without the white that speckled his coat. How strange, she thought, that Nephilim’s child not inherit any of his spots. She looked like her mother though, that much was clear.

But though Firethorn licked and nudged the girl as her mother struggled to her feet, the foal did not stir. Firethorn was no expert – she had only given birth for the first time herself a few days ago – but she quickly realised that something was wrong. She nudged the filly harder, and when she received no response she paused and watched in distress as the child’s sides failed to rise and fall even once.

Cold, sickening dread crept up her legs and into the pit of her stomach. She felt dizzy, and for a moment she thought her legs might fail her.

“Firethorn?” Her sister’s voice was barely more than a whisper as Foxglove came up beside her. She was clearly weary, stumbling slightly as she made her way towards the foal. “Firethorn? Is she as beautiful as yours?”

Despite the pain and exhaustion that were written clearly on her body, her eyes were bright with excitement as she looked from her child to her sister and back again. A small smile sat upon her lips, but it soon began to fall when she noticed the expression on her sister’s face.

“Firethorn?” she tried again, worry creeping into those hopeful eyes. “What’s wrong?”

She’s dead. Your daughter was dead before she even hit the ground.

How could she say such a terrible thing out loud, and to her closest friend in the whole world? How did anyone put those words together and manage to force them out past the lump in their throat?

And yet it had to be done.

“Foxglove,” she began, her voice breaking despite her best efforts to control it. She paused to take a deep breath. “Foxglove, she’s not breathing.”

Her sister’s face changed from concern to confusion, then after a moment a smile of disbelief cracked her lips. “What? No, she’s fine… Look –” Foxglove pushed past her, lowering her own nose to the child. She began to coo, whispering sweet nothings to the child as she nudged her.

Firethorn was silent, eyes downcast. The babe at her heels watched the scene with wide eyes, perplexed by the motionless foal and the adults’ interactions with it.

It was several minutes before the sound. A cry – a wail if ever the word had been more appropriate. A sound so filled with pain and anguish that it sent the birds fluttering from the trees around them. A sound that echoed across the bay and that would carry for miles on the breeze.

Firethorn leapt into action, though she could not say that she gave her actions any conscious thought. She was driven by something deeper, something unidentifiable. She reached for her sister, trying to herd her gently away from the corpse before someone arrived to search for the source of the noise.

“No!” Foxglove cried, tears streaming down her face as she tried to resist her sister’s guidance. “No, no, no, no, no! She can’t be…”

The words continued, devolving into hysterical muttering as Firethorn took to physically pushing her away to get her to move. She turned her teeth to Foxglove’s rump, guiding her out of the trees and down towards the beach again at the fastest pace she could manage without leaving the colt that trailed after her behind.

They only stopped when Firethorn had driven them almost to the water’s edge. It was only spring, but the wind whipped their hair and bit at their skin. Foxglove was still sobbing, struggling to catch her breath. “W-w-what are we going to do? W-what about Nephilim? What is he going to think?”

The questions streamed from her until Firethorn wrapped her neck over hers.

“Shhh,” she whispered. “You’re gonna be okay.”

She paused, her mismatched eyes flitting across the horizon as she waited for someone to appear, prepared for their approach while she comforted her sister.

“Don’t worry,” she continued. “I’ll handle everything.”

foxglove && firethorn
LIKE TWO ATOMS IN A MOLECULE, INSEPARABLY COMBINED