Eyes the color of emeralds, a gente hue of color like the young pine trees in the springtime where they flourished the most, look upon Feray’s shaking form. She wants to hate it, the very image of her lie born into truth standing before her now, but deep down she can’t bring herself to chase off the product of their affection, their lack of will and careful thought. Had it not been for the eyes she’d never have known until later, when surely this leggy filly would be as tall as Feray herself; surely towering over her older siblings. The world around them is quiet, as if mother nature herself was holding her own breath as to what the frightly mother’s decision would be; the choice between life or death. Feray shifts closer, a shaky breath escaping her throat, yet she pushes on till her dark lips brush the dried and crusted skin atop the child’s back; the closest she’s gotten since giving birth to the girl and instinct giving in to washing her clean then.

The eyes are what scares her, what had her so on edge when at first everything had all been fine; all until the filly opened her eyes and instead of the usual blue, she was met with his eyes. His gaze haunts her dreams still, the warm embrace they’d shared a small flickering flame in the back of her mind. A curious nose bumps her, and she flinches, a cycle the mother and daughter had begun when on their feet and figuring thing’s out. Feray wants to love her, because despite the curse of her eyes the little girl, her first ever, was quite a spectacular sight. White speckled skin along her belly would surely give way to the mottled skin Feray herself sports, offsetting the white markings she wears on top of her sandy colored coat. She was beautiful.

“My moon is surely laughing at my expense,” she sighs out loud, looking away from the wobbly child to the thick foliage of cover Feray had moved them to, a few slivers of light from the morning sun peeking through the canopy of branches above and dancing along both their coats in unison. It was quiet here, spare for the gentle rustling of the pines against the breeze, but otherwise the pair had to be disturbed. Feray’s wandering gaze went back to the filly, brown and blue staring back into eye’s that did not belong to her, yet the feeling of discomfort does not rise when looking into them as they had before.

“Esmeray,” the mare finally speaks, reaching to touch the white marking that crests the space between her daughter’s eyes, continuing to speak in a hushed tone that was only for the girl, “my dark little moon you are, my secret gift that even the light of the moon can not wash away from my heart.” The bond is there, despite the brief indifference to it, but it was there enough in the way her doting words have her bringing the girl even closer to her side.

A child that was hers, but not her beloved’s; a product of two enemies finding solace in the heat of the moment that led to the creature at her side. Feray would protect her gift from both of the males, regardless of who truly was the father; if not for the sake of the child, but for Feray herself. How terribly wrong it was to feel for more than one man.