Larka is no first time mother when it comes to birthing foals. She has had her fair share of children, some even grown and old enough to bear their own foals. However with that experience, comes age. While there were mares who had given birth late in life like Sanibel, Larka found that as the days dwindle down, so did her assurance.

Darshan’s death had taken its toll on her in more ways than one. Though she found some comfort and solace in the outspoken confession between herself and Zevulun, that did little to help her dreams. Day and night, she found herself waking to the sounds of Darshan’s gut wrenching cries of pain and agony. Each passing breeze brought with it ghostly memories of the metallic tang of fresh blood and memories of watching the crimson flow ooze across the ground to stain the yellowing ends of prairie grass. Sanibel had grown weaker and weaker after birthing her last foal until finally she welcomed death when it came knocking on her door. Darshan, her beautiful, proud, strong Darshan had died to bring little Jaya into the world. What sort of hand would the fates deal her this time?

Fear and anxiety kept her closer to Zevulun and the rest of the herd than she might normally have been. Instead of venturing off on her own to graze in the peaceful bliss of her own thoughts, Larka kept close to let the distraction of day to day herdlife keep her from the uncertainty in the future. She tried not to interfere with Zevulun’s daily activities, nor did she burden him with her internal struggles; instead she found solace in his mere presence and watching as he expertly delegated his instructions to his sons and the rest of the guardians who patrolled the borders. For a time it seemed to help, her dreams had begun to disappear like a mist over the still waters of a lake. The visions that had once been so vivid in her mind began to slowly ebb away… but not completely.

When the first pangs of labor clenched her belly, Larka was not prepared. As expected, they begin first no worse than a mere aching stomach that causes her to pace back and forth in a nervous circle. Only later, when the contractions grow in strength, does the silverling mare cease her pacing. Instead of seeking solitude as she used to, the memories of Darshan’s death drive too deep a blade to bring her far from the herd. Instead, she seeks out her herd one breathless step after the next.

She cannot find her voice to call out for Zev, the contractions one after the other reduces her voice to silence. Instead she gingerly curls her legs beneath her and stretches out on the grass softened soil. Minutes tick by but Larka feels them as slowly as hours. Each passing breath lingering on her nostrils as the sweat darkens her alabaster coat to ash. Fluid gushes around her hip and her silver blue eyes widen with fear. Nostrils quiver but for the life of her, she can smell no blood. No metallic tang to taint the air and warn of her untimely death. Pain steals her breath but it is not the life ending pain that Darshan felt. The urge to push overtakes her as slowly, the sac holding the precious new life slips from her body and onto the trampled blanket of grass behind her.

Breathlessly, she lays in silence for a moment, attempting to regain enough strength to stand. It is only when she feels the child’s sticky form wriggling against her rump that she dares to sit up and gaze for the first time at what might be her last foal. Despite being covered in the tattered remains of its birthing sac, the small tawny spotted filly manages to shake most of the sticky sac from her head. Her tiny nostrils quiver with her small, lean frame as she shivers and blinks about her with bright blue green eyes. The moment her innocent gaze locks with Larka, all fears and worries disappear. The innocence and expectancy in those pale eyes brings the weary mare to her hooves with a desperate need to touch her daughter.

”There’s my girl.” she coos softly, exhaling a gentle breath against the filly’s damp neck. Tentatively she cleans the remnants of the birthing sac from the girl’s buckskin coat. Larka notices for the first time, the awkward manner in which one of the filly’s tiny forelegs does not need to bend as she attempts to curl them beneath her but the silver mare merely chalks it up to the girl’s experimentation with her appendages. It was only right to test them out wasn’t it?

Not to be outdone by her mother, the little filly of brandished gold uncurls her limbs and after several failed attempts, finally manages to rise on wobbling legs. Larka smiles as she watches her, nodding her own finely dished head in encouragement. Brows furrow in concern as the filly takes a stiff-legged step and tumbles back onto the earth. That foreleg…. It refused to bend at her hock. The first signs of worry dance behind her silver blue eyes as she drops her ashen velveteen to nuzzle the girl’s hip in encouragement. Again she rises and with a shake of her tiny head tries to take another step. This time, she is successful in walking without falling back to the earth but still, the stiffness with which she moves alarms Larka. She has not seen anything like this before. ”It’s okay…” she croons, arching her neck to nuzzle the filly’s flank as she shifts her hips to bring her flank closer to the girl and her tiny searching muzzle. She only needs milk to loosen those joints. she tells herself, blinking in silent contemplation as the spotted filly ravenously suckled at her side.