Suddenly there's a bridge crossing the gap between the mainland and the island, and Gaucho's leading her across it. She follows, forcing a snappiness into her stride so he doesn't think her weak and feeble (even though she is, and just wants to lie down and get this over with). It is tempting to take him up on his offer of support, but she fights against the urge; she must do this alone.

After all, she deserves every iota of suffering and pain; even that is too good for her after what she's done.

He informs her that the Oasis is close, and that sounds like a rather nice place to give birth, but unfortunately her womb has other ideas. They're barely at the other end of the land bridge when a series of crippling contractions inform the silver that she hasn't the time to wander any further, and she begins to lower herself to the ground with an apologetic glance at Gaucho. "Sorry...big journey from Edge. Thought I'd have more....time... The last word is a groan as the most forceful pain yet wracks her stomach, and she knows the birth is imminent. She hopes Gaucho won't look directly at her as she's delivering - she's sure he's seen it all before, but dammit, her fantasy-come-to-life about bedding Helovia's resident warlord does not include a chapter where he watches in disgust as she moans, sweats and bleeds her way into childbirth. He's meant to come strolling along afterwards and see her sweat-free and looking like she's done nothing more than a brisk morning walk; he's meant to think damn, she makes that look easy. He is not meant to be forced to endure every grisly detail.

The silver knows what happens next; she has done this enough times, and nature soon takes over. Her foal arrives in an explosion of pain, heralded by a wave of blood and liquid. One would think that it'd hurt less given how many foals she's borne, but alas, nature is not so kind as to let up its agony for any woman. Still, every throb and sting is worth it when she turns and sees her newborn colt nestled behind her, damp and dark and healthy. The nubs of two horns rest near his ears, and two wet, scraggly wings flop against his sides as he strains feebly against the bonds of his mucus prison. Nyx turns and licks him free, and watches as he takes his first breath of true air; the sight never loses its appeal or awe-inspiring beauty, no matter how many times she sees it.

But she does not have long to appreciate her newest son. She isn't at all surprised when another set of contractions begin to ripple across her stomach, and she gives nothing but a resigned groan as she realises that, once again, nature has damned her to twins.

Mother Nature really needs a punch in the tits, doesn't she?

Still, she reasons as she begins to push again, this is one way to ensure optimum suffering for herself. Twins is like her form of self-flagellation, her way of suffering, her pennance. The second foal slips free in a haze of exhaustion, and she's so weak she can hardly lift her head - not as bad as last time, when lack of food and winter's harshness had almost killed her, but she's painfully feeble and incapable of defending herself should she be attacked (although woe betide the creature who tries to attack her when Gaucho's around), and wants nothing more than a nice long sleep. But she has a foal to clean, and as she turns to admire her newest child, the sight turns her blood cold.

Whereas normally her foals are wrapped in a wet blanket of clear white, this one is dressed in red. Blood red. And it isn't moving.

Panic seizes the grey and she releases an anguished whinny as she begins to frantically lick at the bag, but it does not give beneath her tongue as the last one did. "Gaucho, there's something wrong," she cries, terror in her voice and cold fingers gripping her heart. Is this the Gods' way of punishing her for her sins? Giving her a dead child, a final curse upon her over-worked womb? No, it cannot be, the Gods would not do that, they wouldn't punish an innocent child for the sins of the mother...

But the bag will not break. Nyx rips at it with her teeth, but she hasn't the strength to pierce it with her blunt ivories; she thinks of the glass ones she keeps stashed in her mane, but there isn't time to get them and fumble them on, and she's too weak anyway...

Dominus darts forwards and tears at the bag with his razor-sharp fangs. She has never seen him be so gentle as he carefully avoids nicking the foal's flesh, just in case it's alive. But the filly doesn't gasp her first sweet breath of air; she simply lies prone, and Nyx's terror turns to blind panic. "She's not breathing, she's not breathing!" She barges Dominus out of the way with her head (he's so concerned that he even forgets to complain) and licks the foal's muzzle, throat, stomach, sternum, everywhere she can think of to try and stimulate her into life. But it's not working, her darling daughter is dead - tears blur the silver's eyes as she continues her ministrations, not giving up, refusing to believe that this is happening...

And the filly breathes - a great gasp of fresh Throat air inhaled into fledgling lungs, a huge, body-wracking gulp like a drowned man pulled from the river. It can only have been a handful of seconds between the bag being pierced and the girl's first breath, but it felt like a lifetime.

Relief floods the grey and her head collapses back down to the dry soil. She's shaking, exhausted; she knows she needs to nudge her children to suckle, but she hasn't the energy to do anything but stare blindly at the filly she thought she'd lost.