my waves meet your shore, ever and evermore;

When Spring (or the miserable excuse they have for it on Tinuvel, at least) breaks, Fearne’s child waits. On and on, and for a long few moments she wonders if she’s eternally cursed to be pregnant – repercussions from the universe for straying.

Finally, though, Summer breaks and with it comes the filly. She hits the ground, an easy birth compared to the last few, and Fearne is relieved to see the girl mostly takes after her. Her coat is a pretty grulla, speckled white. Nothing to speak to her possible parentage – no bold white markings, no surprising, bold bay coat. She got lucky. The girl is only really clearly hers —no evidence of Raegar or Fell on her. Well, assuming she doesn’t count the fact that one of her eyes is shot half through with a bright blue.

After debating for a few days, Fearne had finally settled on a name – Whim. A little on the nose, perhaps, but it seems to fit the girl. They’re sleeping, Fearne curled protectively around Whim when she hears footsteps behind them. Fearne’s ears pin – everything just smells wet with this weather, and she hasn’t yet introduced Fell to Whim. Part of her is afraid he will simply assume the child belongs to Raegar and kill them both to be done with it. Even so, summer brings predators and Fearne cannot wander too far from the herd - not with such a young foal.

But it isn’t Fell - instead, it’s a mare. Her soft, tentative voice relaxes the tension from Fearne’s body, and she is able to quietly soothe Whim back to sleep. She turns to the other mare and says “Oh – it’s you.” The kind black mare she had met months ago and shared a pleasant enough conversation with. Fearne offers her a tentative smile at the request. She’s never done that for a mare before - never had someone close to her, never had someone want her for support. But Whim is her sixth child; she’s so confident at giving birth these days that she hadn’t even stressed when Whim came late.

“Of course I will,” Fearne tells her, extending her muzzle to the other mare. “Is this your first? Whim is my sixth child – I’m living proof you will get through this.” Fearne gestures to the leggy filly still sleeping curled in the grass. “This is Whim - she’ll be excited to wake to a new playmate.”