If someone were to ask me what the worst thing about being pregnant was, I am not sure how I would answer them. Surely parturition would be considered the best thing about a pregnancy, since it defines the end of the time period that one must carry a heavy, awkward creature within their womb. What they never mention is the pain that is involved in this. I have seen mares give birth, I have aided them. I can sense when the time is nearing in others, so it makes sense that I know it is soon for myself. My limbs never stop walking, the steady rocking of my belly encourages the foal to shift itself into the correct position. Pain from this movement, as it nudges against ribs and other organs beneath my skin, causes me to grind my teeth, and swish my tail, but otherwise I merely trudge onwards, wearing a thin path between trees as I pace back and forth.

The cramps begin then, my hindlegs kick at the stomach out of irritation, ears swivelling so that they lay against my nape for a time. It does not last, I remind myself, and continue walking. Dirk is not upon my back this evening, he watches from a perch atop a fallen tree, his curious, mismatched eyes unsure of how to take in the scene of his bonded being in such pain.

Suddenly, I am forced to come to a stop, as a wet sensation trickles down my legs. With a snort and a grunt, I make my way to the sheltered, wooded nook of our home, allowing the trees to swallow me up so that I might give birth with some chance of safety. I send a call out to my herd, by the time they arrive, the newest addition will already be standing.


* * ~ * *


Sweat coats my hide, but I do not care. Call me weak, but as I gaze over his strong, sturdy form, I feel pride bloat my ego. My tongue runs over his charred fur, pressing the dampness from him. The snowy blanket upon his rump is a clear signature from his father. I nod in approval, thoughts forgotten of my previous doubt should I birth a colt. No, now all shall know that it was I who have control of our King, I who can bend him to my will. Here, my son stands as proof that my blood is better spent on reproducing, on filling the Edge up with warriors who would fight for us, defend us. I stand, my legs surprisingly shaky, but they hold me firm. Gently I nudge him to his feet also, patient and forgiving no matter how many times it takes him to gain his grounding. My long, leonine tail wraps around him, urging him to stand near me, my hindleg shifting as a gentle guide towards the sweet liquid that flows from my udder. I nicker to my son, and gift him with his name that I have no doubt, will ring proud across the Edge in the future.

"Tamlin." My beloved bonded mews his welcome, poking his little brown head into the wooded area. But he remains vigilant on the outside of my little copse, alerting me to any who might think to invade this space.

"Mauja," I call, "it is time for you to meet your first son." A haunting, yet intoxicating melody sings the message across the Edge, though it invites all those whom I saw at the recent meeting to come. A serene smile adorns my lips, and I wonder just how long it will be before we are met with company.