the happy ending depends, of course...

Sleep was something that had always evaded the King. But now, after the Deep Forest, it proved entirely elusive for the Elephant. So it was pure exhaustion that had claimed him, haunted mind finally succumbing to the necessary REM cycles. It was not a pleasant sleep— nor was it restful. Dreams were filled with smoke and roaring fires. Stretched, distended black skin cracked with blood and seeping serum; sloughing at the slightest touch. Eyes boiled to white, opaque corneas in bloated faces that looked nothing like the they did in life.

Closed, sleeping eyes of ice blue, peppered the dreams. Face half pristine white, half charred black, crystalline blue horn erupting from the carnage of his forehead. The hopeful, pleading look that had seared into his navy blue eyes before his magma elephant had seared the Frozen Light. The King twitched in his sleep, Mbwene giving small whimpers as some of the images bled through their bond and into her own dreams of sweet, pale mares and nice, winged lions.

Black-rimmed ears twitched as the crunch of snow vaguely invaded his tortured slumber. He began to rouse, mind trying to claw and climb up the nebulous, shadowed walls of the hellhole he had descended. But it was so difficult— and suddenly there was a gentle humming, so melodious that it wove a band of shimmering light through his darkness.

The tendril of brightness multiplied with each note, spreading and expanding, pushing away the burned carcasses and fiery demons. It their place emerged a cove of trunks and a bed of dry grasses. It was a memory, strangely still shimmering in the same light of the hum, as if saturated by light and luster. The King’s dream blurred for a moment, overwhelmed by glistening gleams, before clearing and focusing on the swollen sides of a mare.

It was Mara, the strip of dark brown on her golden barrel shuddering with contractions as labor gripped her slight form. Tembovu was where he had been that day: at her delicate face, muzzle brushing strands of her silken forelock out of her bright green eyes. Eyes that were glaring up at him, pale ears flush with her skull. “You better love this foal bec—“ break for gasp and contraction, “—because you’re not getting another one.” Her whiplike words had brought a smile (at his peril) and he had gently lipped the sweaty skin at her throat, murmuring words of encouragement. They should have expected an intense delivery, with her small size and his gargantuan build.

But, still, Mara was a tenacious as she was beautiful. And so their son slid, all knobby knees and long legs, into the world. Immediately, he was standing, blurry eyes not yet free of afterbirth and Mara still heaving for breath on her side. The sight of the foal filled him with such overwhelming pride, “Faxr,” the name had slipped out without thought. Mara gently nickered an agreement, sweaty and soft nose touching his leg, before unsteadily rising to her hooves.

Tembovu was there, solid body easily absorbing and supporting Mara’s. And Faxr was wobbling to his dam’s face, huffing and leaning as gravity pulled his top-heavy body. Sire and dam dropped their heads, teaching their son their scent, welcoming him into the world, and starting a family—

Navy eyes slowly opened, drawn immediately to the happy croons of Mbwene, who was still sleeping and curled into his barrel. They then alighted on the butterfly wings of Myrrine, who was laying on her side not far from them. “Myrrine?” voice was still husky from sleep, and confusion ran thick through him, “What did you do— was that you humming?” Though his eyes may be bewildered, the shadows were no where to be found. A contented calm had replaced them.

...on when you end your story.