The girl's not looking at the egg when hairline cracks begin to splinter across its face, but the boy is, over-sized ears pressed forward at the sound of scraping hooves behind the shell. In seconds the girl is by his side, staring anxiously at the crumbling wall which up to now had protected her from the responsibility of whatever lay inside. She feels the last sliver of hope that someone will come back for the egg laugh and leave her, teasing as it dances into the darkening night, and the dread of this reality settles heavily on her head. She looks to Natraj, whose face is a mask of exuberant anticipation, then back to the egg, and swallows hard the lump in her throat. She is ready, she tells herself, ready to take care of whatever poor thing (a fox? Natraj came from an egg...) emerges from the shell and onto the sand. Pulse beating heavy, she waits.

And waits.

And waits.

When the dawn threatens to creep above the eastern horizon, she eyes it blearily, black eyes tired from her vigilant watch. She has not dared sleep, not even to doze, though her body is young an in need of the rest. It is the spiderwebs of cracks that has kept her awake, the ever growing patterns of flaws and gaps, tantalizing promises of the creature inside that never seem to come to fruition, no matter how she wills it. More than once she has had to talk Natraj out of 'helping' the egg, for she dares not rush what nature has perfected. It is not until a resounding snap fills the empty air, and a segment of pale shell abruptly breaks away from the hole that she makes a half-jump forward, wide awake and at full attention, straining for a sight of the creature within.

It takes a moment for them to comprehend the small winged form that lay before them, sad and cold and tiny and weak. When it hits them, it takes another moment form them to truly understand- and by then the little filly is crying, a whimpering sound accompanied by movement that suggests an attempt to stand. It is Natraj who acts first, as usual, leaping into action to push himself against the infant's side, whining his comfort, gazing at the thing with pity in his golden eyes. Why? he asks his bonded, and she can feel his pain and anger through their bond, emotions he quenches so as to avoid scaring the child. Where is mother?

Where is Mother? It's a good question, one that applies to both the yearling and the babe, and with a pang of empathy Tandavi steps forward, willing her voice to soothe the crying child. "It will be okay," she reassures, despite her sinking suspicion that it most certainly will not. She can barely look after herself and Natraj; what is a yearling and a fox to do with a newborn babe? She takes another step forward, hesitant, unsure how best to stop the child's tears. "I'll make sure you're safe," she whispers, voice strong with the impassioned naïveté of youth. "I promise."

She means it, and in that moment, she knows that whatever else happens to her in this world or the next, she will keep her promise. She will keep the child safe.