From the curtain of impellent rain emerged a form, looming and dark and dire, impeding the tirade of droplets which managed to stray into the cavern. For a maddened moment, mind aberrant from the pain parturition, Huyana thought it was Death itself come to deliver her from the agony, to exalt her into the realm of the dead. Neck muscles strained as she hoisted her face upward to watch the form approach, a ring of alarm flashing around her eyes. But I'm not ready, she desperately wanted to plead—she would kiss his feet, pray, beg, anything to stay and herald her babe to life. Too soon, too soon, the rain mare thought, forelegs desperately clawing the floor in an attempt to flee; but the panic soon faded as the figure became apparent—blue eyes watched her. "Deimos," she breathed between gritted teeth, letting the dark head drop onto the coolness of the ground, finally finding some sort of comfort in the inky, wet world she had found herself in. He would guard her and the unborn from the imminence of any possible dissolution, she knew; he would tear their souls from their throats given the chance, and no matter how much that disquieted her and went against every ideal she had, it comforted her to know she would always be safe in his presence. I am here, he said, and the roan relinquished her fears and fixated instead on ushering forth impending life.

Limbs thrashed as the pain increased to an unbearable amount, convulsing through her sides and building steadily in her chest, in her belly; the child was too large for the minute mare, and they both struggled as it came into the world. Huyana grunted as she bit back a scream: would this be the climax of her suffering, she wondered, feeling weak and exhausted and utterly drained.

But as soon as she felt as if she would not last much longer, the agony abated as the slight body erred from her own, slipping into this cold, dank world with little fanfare. Every fiber of her body relaxed, aching and glad, and the mare let herself rest for several fleeting moments, waiting for her breath to steady before daring a peek toward the new life.

But a flash of vibrance caught her eye.

Her gaze flicked toward it, momentarily distracted from the child—it was a flower, a violet bunch of agapanthis growing astonishingly from the stone before her nose. Odd, the rain mare thought as she lipped it curiously; she hadn't seen it before, but it would have been easy to miss the tiny thing in the height of delivery, when pain addled her thoughts and clouded her sight. Delicate, it was, thin petals glowing dimly in the shadow, seemingly ending the travail of her labor and heralding the dawn of a new existence. Consigning the bloom as an anomaly, she forgot it in favor of her newborn. Blue eyes groped through the darkness to find the living thing she had produced. She found the pale, wet, awkward form nestled in the curve of her tail, thin sides rising and falling faintly as she took in her first breaths. To her wonderment, the rain mare found the babe strewn over a bed of flowers, a colorful garden which cushioned her from the cold cavern floor and saved her from the night's chill. Blue eyes softened, amazement settling in the back of her throat as she smiled tiredly at the sight. "She is blessed," Huyana said, drowsy but exultant nonetheless. Her sea-blue gaze was fixated steadily on their daughter, fondness and love and affection blooming in her heart in place of weariness and fatigue, filling the cracks where sorrow once dwelled, where loss and remorse had been tenants for as long as she remembered.

Mustering all the strength she could assemble, the blue lady raised herself from the stone in a clatter of hooves. A large child she was, ungainly limbs sprawled carelessly over the bed of flowers which bore the burden of her wet. Head inclining, the new mother began her industrious cleaning, tearing what remained of the milky film away and lapping at her damp, downy fur until every inch of her gaunt frame was clean and warm and loved.
The promise of a horn made an awkward nub on her brow, pushing through a fine whorl of hair in a harmless bump. Their child was dark in color, though it was obvious she would take after her scholar mother, for thin silver fur waited below the jet baby down. She had achromatic hair, which reminded the roan of the faded tuft of mane which played behind Deimos' ears. Absurdly long, delicate pale lashes sheltered lurid eyes—her father's eyes, though their hue was too florid to match his chroma exactly; they were lilac, like the first flowers, hints and flashes of brighter color suggesting magenta bordering the pupil. Beautiful eyes; flower eyes, the roan thought, caressing her daughter's nose with affection and devotion in its most absolute form.

The babe gave a sputtering bleat, the tangle of her legs stirring incoherently as hunger stirred within the depths of her empty belly. With infinite care, the rain mare nudged the child's rump, encouraging it onto gawky forelimbs. She abided, having no other choice, managing to clamber onto all four legs before collapsing into a bumbling heap. Huyana laughed, sounding tired and thrilled and positively charmed by this maladroit thing, and continued to to assist the babe several more times until she stood on mercurial legs, trembling and new and utterly unsure; every quivering step she took scattered flowers across the cold stone, bright and vivid against the cold grey of rock. It took little urging to get the hungry child to suckle, and with care the mother guided her aimless bairn to the curve of her belly, where the soft new lips latched on to swollen teats. With the first duties of motherhood momentarily relieved, the mare glanced upward to the Reaper, sleepy and utterly content. "What is her name?" she queried, voice ringing softly through the cavern; she trusted Deimos to bequeath the suckling with a fitting title.

Unable to keep her eyes off their daughter for long, Huyana watched the babe as she nursed, a fine coat of milk glazing her lips as she drank the vital fluid. Never had Huyana seen a more beautiful being, every feature clearly alluding to future grace, even through the artlessness of infancy. This child was living proof that exquisite things could bloom from the most desolate of places: death and rain could produce flowers; the world was not so barren as it seemed. After a moment of thought and a slight laugh, the roan peered upward to her beloved once more, mirth in her weary eyes. "She takes after you."

Outside, the rain broke and the clouds scattered, revealing a swarthy sky glowing with a borealis that mirrored the brilliance of the newborn's baptism of petals.