Arkana is a child of war. Her first memories are vivid snatches of a strange and eerie night: her mother waking her, hissing at her to keep hidden; Arkana creeping through the dark forest as shafts of moonlight slant downwards like silver pillars; her heartbeat loud in her ears, almost louder than the sounds of screaming in the distance; strange stallions fighting in a shadowy clearing, two of them turning to her with wicked smiles and saying scary things she doesn't understand; the body of a red mare on the ground in the pale light of early morning, her body emanating a terrible odor that is heavy and foul in Arkana's nostrils.

Having known such fear at such a tender age, she has, so far, had yet to encounter anything else that has inspired a similar base level of instinctual terror.

Then the pain comes one late spring afternoon: first as a deep, sickly ache radiating through her pelvis, then in waves of tightness sharp enough to freeze her breath in her lungs. It's all she can do to keep from screaming as her mother ushers her into a secluded thicket soft with fresh clover and moss. Once, Arkana had imagined herself giving birth in solitude, with no eyes privy to her humiliation and trauma. Now, the thought of being alone is terrifying.

Her lucidity is fleeting as the hours pass and the shadows grow long. Sometimes she is clear-headed enough to ruminate on the anxious thoughts whirling through her brain, winding herself up into a state of near-panic which Evren is forced to firmly talk her down from; others, the pain is too great for her to even think. Much of the time she cannot say what the hour is, or even what day it is. There is only pain, or not-pain. There is only the touch of her mother's mouth on her brow, lips sweeping away the dark, sweaty forelock plastered to Arkana's skin. There is only the gentle pressure of the grass beneath her, and the soft rustle of leaves above her head. There is only the heaviness and deep pressure in her lower abdomen, and the trembling of her exhausted young body.

At some point, Arkana is so tired that she loses consciousness for a few moments. She is awoken by the gentle touch of her mother's snout on her cheek. "Sweetie, you need to get up. She's here, and she needs you." Arkana stares ahead, the world sideways from her vantage point on the ground. The last golden traces of sunlight have all but disappeared, leaving behind a meager smear of pink peeking through the shadowy trees. The pain is gone now, but Arkana aches from head to hoof, and she's aware of an uncomfortable wetness between her back legs.

She does not want to look. Looking makes it real.

But eventually she has no other choice. She cranes her head around and gets a glimpse of a sticky mess of a foal next to her rump, then lays her head back down on the grass.

"Arkana."

There's a gentle shuffling sound as the foal makes a staggering attempt to stand. Arkana feels its tiny legs bump against hers, but she gives it no more response than a slight ear twitch. Inside she is cold and numb, but hot tears prick at the edges of her vision, and a lump sits like a stone in her throat. She closes her eyes. She cannot. She cannot.

"I... I can't, " she finally manages, her voice hoarse and ragged.

"You can," Evren retorts.

"No," Arkana says more sharply, her eyes flying open and her ears twisting back with sudden rage. She lifts her head up to look her mother in the eye. "I can't. I don't want her. I can't do this." Her voice breaks on the last word and the wall holding back her tears finally crumbles, letting them spill hot and swift down her cheeks. Then, in a near-whisper: "Find someone else... Feray, maybe."

There's an exasperated sigh. Arkana hears sniffling, as though her mother is crying. Footsteps retreat through the grass; a single twig snaps, and then Arkana is alone. Alone with it.

The foal gives a pitiful little bleat as it attempts to stand again, but Arkana remains unmoving on the ground, silently weeping, her eyes fixated on empty space.

What would Kaiju Blue think of her now?