Kvothe awoke with a start.

For a long moment the chestnut mare lay without moving, willing the contractions that had woken her to… she didn’t even know anymore. The pressure in her womb was more uncomfortable than painful, and never seemed to last very long. But it had been troubling her for more than a couple days now, and refused to transition into the more powerful contractions that indicated active labor. Instead, the Friesian woman was trapped in this awful pre-birth state - hardly able to eat or sleep for not only the discomfort, but also for the anxiety that gnawed at her insides.

The truth was, a part of her was afraid to bring this child into the world with all the uncertainty that still surrounded his fate.

Little did Kvothe know that it was her fears that held the child’s birth at bay. Her body was already naturally inclined to cling to an unborn child longer than the average mare, and this tendency was only exaggerated by the teetering scale of her emotions. One moment the red woman was desperate to face whatever came, just to end the agony of her wait - and the next she was consumed by dread, planting her figurative hooves. Watching the sunset through dark eyes that were limned with a halo of tears, however, Kvothe finally began to find the resolve that she so desperately needed. The brilliant palette with which the sky was temporarily painted reminded her of the meadow, of the sacred place where she’d both conceived and birthed her first child. Surely there, the gods or fates - whichever might exist - would watch over her and the child.

Rising shakily into a stand, the gravid mare began to move away from the herd, and into the darkness of the nearby forest. It was there that she first heard the soft murmur of voices - no, only a single voice, Kvothe realized as her fiery ears pitched forward to cup the sound. And was it...singing? Curious, she drifted forward, moving as soundlessly as a ghost until the pale figure of her King’s sister was found amidst the growing gloom. It seemed that her child was not the only destined to be born today, Kvothe thought, the full absorption of her senses making her unaware that her own contractions had since stopped. Instead - silent and downwind of the young grey mare - she stood vigil over the birth of her children’s first cousin.

And then, horrified, bore witness to his violent end as well.

Kvothe heard the words that Brunhild spoke, but they could not seem to assemble themselves into anything meaningful in her mind. It was just too unthinkable that the sacrifice of which the mare spoke could be her own son - a child, just a helpless child! Even when the other woman’s hooves came down for the first time, the chestnut mare’s senses still denied the evidence that stood before her. Wide-eyed and filled with growing horror, she watched the child struggle in vain to live, and it was only when his small body grew still that the truth of his death penetrated the thick veil of shock that surrounded her thoughts. And then, there was only one word that she could grasp at, only one that kept her head above the dark depths that threatened to swallow her whole: why?

As she began to back away, her finely-chiseled head shaking back and forth in an unconscious denial, Kvothe found the answer. Because this was the fate intended for all the children who could not claim direct ties to Ironclad. Had Brunhild not called him a sacrifice, and spoken of the enemy’s blood the colt had borne? Her own foal could claim ties of the same nature - a descendent of something hated, a life that could easily be discarded. The breath forced from their lungs before they had even risen for the first time.

No. She wouldn’t - couldn’t - let it happen. Whirling around, Kvothe’s hooves dug deeply into the forest’s soft loam, and she sprung forward. And though her heart still belonged to the Inlet and its stallion, her body was impelled to flee as if Hell itself pursued her. Through the forest and across the still-dark plain. Into the waves, and across the sea that was as dark as ominous as her thoughts. By her own terror she was driven south, to the Crossing.

And by her desperation, she was driven back into the embrace of the "kind" stranger who had raped her those seasons ago.

Back to Tyr.