It was familiar— the scent of birth at the borders of the Edge. Once before he had scented it, with Nyx, the silver General. But then, the birth had been drenched in blood. Now, the smell was simply afterbirth, sweat, and life. New life that instinctively tugged at emotions deep within the Elephant’s barrel— a warmth that had settled after seeing the tangle of legs beneath Elsa’s wing. It was different than his first time as a father— that had been a time of excitement, love, promise. Now, it was a balm to the solitude in his chest; but it was also a fervor smoldering in the embers of this newfound warmth. An intense need to protect, to ensure that these new lives continued to pump their lifeblood for the future.

So, with these newfound (and strong) feelings coursing through him, his hooves moved towards the sounds of birth without any hesitation. His ears twitched at the faint sound of a mare’s cry; birth was never easy, despite the beauty it brought. Some price must be paid for the wonder of creation— and surely it was not given at the time of procreation; for that (generally) was pleasurable to both parties.

Navy eyes catch sight of fluttering wings that could only be Myrrine. The delicate, innocent mare had been pregnant? Was now a mother? She had been so sweetly uncertain in all the times he had met her. And so youthful, herself! She had found a sire to her child? Surprise rose his brows as his steps quickened towards the dam and foal.

But another snagged his attention, a running painted body of chestnut wings. A stallion in stature— older in body than Myrrine— stood above the child’s first bath. Gaze sharpened, studying this man. He was striking, to be certain; golden splashed with white bright upon his coat, long flaxen locks framing a handsome face. A face that was filled with awe as words fell from his lips, further supporting that this was the child’s father.

The child, herself, was a wet, fuzzy, beautiful mess— quickly being sorted by her mother’s tongue. Crinkled, slicked butterfly wings boasted colors brighter even than Myrrine’s, while gold speckled her body. “She is beautiful, Myrrine,” his quiet, low rumble faded as he watched the bright gaze fix on her dam, “Congratulations.”

His attention shifted back to the man, the Outcast. The last sire from outside the Edge had not been involved in the twins’ lives. He had arrived late to the birthing and watched as the mare nearly bled to death. Thus, it was with a hardened face that he addressed the man, “Will you be a father to her?” His thick neck tensed— if the answer was no, then this stallion had already spent enough time within the Edge’s borders.

Tembovu

The Elephant King