Nyimara is prepared long before the first wave of contractions grip the curve of her swollen belly in pain. In the weeks before, she had felt the child lower into position and had birthed enough live children into the world to know that labor would be soon to follow. Tactfully, she draws herself further and further away from the small herd with careful instruction for Uhtred to keep an eye on Rehoboam. Though the gray painted stallion still firmly believed the child she carried was his own and thus the tether of invisible vines bound him to her out of what he called
“Duty”, Nyimara still did not completely put it past him to try to escape when she was at her weakest.

Weakness is not something the chocolate colored mare tolerated. However mother nature had its own sick pleasure in making even the fierce witch succumb to the grips of labor. Ever defiant, Nyimara grinds her teeth together to hold back the cries of pain that threaten to spill past her lips. Step after painful step, she walks through the dunes, her hooves shuffling the layers of sand from her path. She had already decided long ago that the rocky canyon where she had first met the strange duo pair of Salem nomads would do perfectly for a nice private area to birth this foal. She had long given up the desire to have a guardian to protect her during this vulnerable time and instead found that the land itself was a more reliable protector.

The high limestone walls provided her with shade. She dropped almost gratefully onto the cool sand covered earth near the small conclave where she had first found the stallion and mare. Droplets of water trickled down the side of the rock wall, disappearing into the small pool that gathered near its base. This place was a secret Nyimara kept for herself, not even Uhtred had been brought here. Even in the throws of labor, the mahogany woman feels herself relaxing with an exhausted sigh. The trek here had taken more from her than she expected. Already her dark brown skin was coated with a thin layer of sweat, matting her pale silver mane against the curve of her throat. ’it wont be long now…’ she whispered to herself as much as to the unborn child that gnawed at the inside of her belly.

Time seems to slow now. Moments turn into hours in her mind as wave after wave of pain and pressure push her onto the brink of oblivion. Only then does the child make its appearance into the world in a gush of blood mingled fluid. Exhaustion threatens to overwhelm her, begging her to merely lay in the sand and let the world itself take her and bury her beneath the red seas of Salem. The arid breeze drifts across her sand coated figure as with a groan she lifts her head to gaze at her new child. A filly. A smile curves across her ashen lips as she gazes at the damp form wriggling uncomfortably in the tangle of sack that had brought her into the world. Dark, inky dark in the shadow of the limestone cliffs. ”Rhaenys.” she murmurs, the name slipping smoothly from her lips as the silver haired witch draws her strength to stand on shaking legs. ’Rhaenys’... the name a binding spell meant to draw tight the strings of bond between mother and child.

Dark eyes soften as a gentle cooing echoes from her lungs as the mahogany woman tenderly cleaned the damp bundle. It was a thankless task but without it, even the hot zephyrs that blew over Salem might cause the child to chill not to mention the bitter cold of night. However, as much as she wished to do nothing more than curl tightly against Rhaenys and whisper promises of a great future in her little ears until sleep took them, even Nyimara is not willing to be parted from her herd that long. Quinn was proving himself to be a capable and thoroughly pleasing companion but even he does not have her full trust. Bjorn had taught her well that promises were easily broken and she learned her lesson well. Patiently she watches as the tiny girl tries to stand, watches with baited breath as one attempt turns into two and finally on wobbling legs she leans towards the sweet aroma of milk that floods from Nyimara’s swollen teats. A gentle nicker of encouragement rumbles from her lungs as she legs the girl feed, knowing that she would need her strength if she were to trek over the dunes to rejoin the rest of the herd.