The first child is better, by nature of being born first. Her brother laughs as she thinks this, delighted that the twins have finally emerged, dancing and yipping excitedly around his nest of eggs. His sister may be tired but he is more alert than ever, and he grabs the nest between little teeth, dragging it slowly toward the newborn foal.
The sky grows lighter as the mare waits, pushing and sweating as her youngest child refuses to leave the womb. She can feel it kicking, fighting, and wishes it would not, while Neaera, obedient, cries out toward her swollen sides. The combination of pushing and pleading seems to do the trick, and before too much light streaks into the sky the second is born, rosy and gold, and the Fire Dancer breathes a sigh of relief. "Savera," she dubs the second one. "My little sunrise."
She is tired.
As bright fingers of sunlight peek through silver clouds, the Fire Dancer and her brother observe their little family, a sense of peace washing through the bond. The copper child pushes her children together and lays herself beside them, her long tongue reaching out to clean and warm each one, a blanket of embers rolling over them in search of injury to heal and treat. Her contentment is pierced with profound sadness - last time she did this Sacre was there. She held little Mortimer and smiled at her lover, warmth and fire blooming in her chest.
This time the Fire Dancer is alone, and cold.
Natraj draws closer, the eggs rocking in their nest. He leaves it in front of the twins before curling up beside his sister, bright gold eyes looking for her gaze. Not alone, he tells her through their bond. Never alone.
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