The filly was born without a sound, sliding silently onto the snow.  Her body was a perfect line:  her legs were tucked underneath her, and her neck was stretched out, reaching for the world beyond her mother's womb.  When she came to a rest, her eyes closed, she did not move.  She didn't know how to move, but even if she did, she wouldn't want to.  The snow was cold against her wet skin, so brutally cold; it encompassed her, offering her a frigid pillow on which to rest her fragile body.  She imagined that this was the end.  Her life had been wonderful, for the short time that she had been aware of it.  Her mother's womb had been warm and safe, and she had never experienced pain or fear there.

The movements of labor had startled her.  Her mother's belly contracting around her, forcing her out, had brought the first inkling of fear into her unborn mind.  She had tried to resist (perhaps that was why it had been such a long and difficult labor), but the longer she attempted to remain in her mother's womb, the more she found herself struggling to focus.  She grew weaker as time dragged on, unable to hold herself in anymore.  With on final shove, she found herself sprawling in the snow, wet and cold and afraid, suddenly assuaged by anything and everything around her.

The first thing she noticed was the feeling of the snow.  It was so cold that it hurt, and she could feel each individual flake as it melted against her hide.  It was the worst around her eyes and muzzle, where the skin was thinner and unprotected by the sparse hair that coated the rest of her body.  She shifted, searching for relief, but even that small movement caused tiny nails to rake her cheek.  She stilled, refusing to move, overwhelmed by the physical sensations gouging her tiny body.

The filly did not open her eyes.  She could tell that it was brighter here, wherever here was, could sense, in some small way, that shadows shifted across her lids, flickering along her retinas.  It would be too much to take in, even so bland a landscape as the snow-covered Falls.  Besides, she could hear everything that she needed to:  her mother's labored breath behind her, the roar of a waterfall cascading in the distance, the gentle plop of snow as it fell from a tree branch, her own fragile heartbeat pounding in her ears.  This, too, was a deluge of information, a barrage that brought naught but bewilderment to the newborn child.

It was too much.  It was all too much.  Her breath came in shallow gasps; if one did not look carefully, it would be difficult to tell if she breathed at all.  Every breath brought prickles of snow against her skin, a painful distraction from the immediate needs of a newborn foal.  Tiny puffs of vapor lifted from her nostrils, barely visible from afar, and still she lay, a silent sculpture, so perfectly still that she could be dead.

"Talk."

The girl had grown so cold that she could no longer feel anything against her skin; it was a blessed reprieve from the assault of the snow on her senses, a calm that gave her the illusion of warmth. Darkness blossomed and she fell into it, unaware of anything more to life than what little she had experienced. In a way, it was almost like her mother's belly.

A shadow fell over the filly, shielding her from the elements; she felt a gentle pressure against her, but the numbness of ice had settled into her bones. She wasn't even shivering anymore, and she could not bring herself to shake off the darkness and step into the painful light. Everything was dull and easy right here, right now, wherever this was.

Oblivious to the talk circling her, the filly began to stir; a quiet mmphhh emerged from her throat, announcing her life to the world. The feeling crept back into her tiny body, bringing pins and needles with it on flakes of snow. The pressure over her grew until it ached, and finally and squirmed, as though trying to find comfort once more. Ik hou van jou, mijn dochter. The words were the first that she had heard, and the lightning marking on her neck sparked to life in response, dancing across her still-wet skin. Something that she would later recognize as love sparked in her chest, and some instinct buried deep within her bade her to open her eyes.

The world outside was fuzzy and white. It came into focus gradually, making the girl scrunch her nose comically as she tried to understand the shapes floating around her. She was dimly aware that the source of the angel-voice was by her side, and that it was the source of the pressure; finding that the joint of his wing was higher and, therefore, less likely to press against her body, the filly squirmed closer to her father, seeking out his warmth without seeking out his touch.

A rough tongue began to run over her body, and the filly shivered, making incomprehensible noises of protest. That hurt, didn't the pale shadow know that? Lightning flared angrily along her neck as she whined, shuddering and trying to pull herself away from her mother. Where was the angel-voice? Surely he would protect her.

"Talk."