Rain lashed outside the cave, a spring shower that came unexpectedly in the late hours of the night and would peter out just as suddenly. For now, though it turned the cool spring night into a raging storm that bellowed with waves of thunder and seemed to shake the surrounding mountains. The cave was a respite, a sheltered cocoon that held its inhabitants safe from the weather and now was the time they needed that safety most. Had Aisling known it would be tonight? She must have, if only in her the realms of the deeper instinct that drove her to seek seclusion, seek shelter. She may have been granted a temporary respite in the Basin but this was still a foreign land to her, she still and outsider, and so that night she had tried to hide herself away, to hide her child away, from the threats of prying eyes unknown dangers. 

For hours it seemed, the little faerie mare battled though the discomfort and restless pangs of labor. She shuffled around the small cave, constantly adjusting her position in a quest to find relief but until her work was done there was none to he had. In one corner lay her flute, playing an old, gentle tune that helped to keep the girl's mind occupied and block out the sounds of the storm outside. She wanted her mother, never more so had Aisling wished to be home again that as she struggled to bring new life into the world. Her mother would know what to do, how to take care of the babe. All through the arduous task, she fretted and worried that she was unfit and unprepared for motherhood; just a foolish girl who had gotten herself in trouble and minute upon minute the pain and the worry compounded. This wasn't right. She couldn't do it. She wasn't able.

Her daughter entered the world and Aisling's worry melted away. What fight could fear put up against the waves and waves of overwhelming love that crested over her. The flute ceased its song and even the storm seemed to quiet, both humbled by a far greater miracle. As instinct and instruction told her, the new mother began to clean the foal, pulling back in surprise at the first lick for the little lemon was just as sweetly tart as her father was minty; she only cuchked softly and continued. Aisling marveled over the little filly, laying close to lend warmth and nuzzling the little body to encourage movement. She was so beautiful, all pink and yellow and fuzzy, even a little nib of a horn upon her brow. Aisling had never seen anything more perfect! This was it, her purpose, her prize; this was all she needed, just this little filly, her little lass to be safe and happy. "Fáilte go dtí an domhain a páiste, mo chroí." she murmured sweetly to her heart's most dear. Welcome to the world, my sweet child.

Larue...

I am not yet even born, and I am bored. I move, I fidget, I push against the boundaries of my mother’s womb because there is naught to do but exist in here. Though I am not yet conscience or sentient, even the subdued firing my synapses in my brain know how boring this is.

I want out. 

And, after more time than I can afford— my time has not begun and, still, I am counting the moments I have not filled with thoughts and activity — the womb around me, this temporary home of warmth and safety, tightens, pushes, contracts. Some foals might find birth uncomfortable, unwilling to shed their protected cocoon; but I find it exhilarating. It’s exciting, thrilling, it’s dynamic and squeezing, and a little distressing— but in the end it brings light and change.

I am pure movement when cold air replaces liquid warmth. Long, slick legs of hoary pink kicking and flailing. I do not even know what the ground is, and yet my rose thorn hooves are thrashing for purchase. The coldness is invigorating as much as it is shocking, and I like it. It makes me feel alive— not that my active little body needs any more life at the moment. 

The only thing in my small universe that could have calmed my legs in that moment licks me— mother. My dam— bright turquoise eyes try to focus on the pale, warm, homey body that surrounds me, nuzzles me, talks to me. Speech! I have, in my gestation, heard rumbles— many of them sweet and lilting— coming from my mother. But to hear my mother’s words right from her mouth; the sound is sweet and my own tart muzzle reaches out to her licking one.

A strange vibration happens in my throat— the beginning of a nicker. But I am too young, my lungs too sticky from birth, to truly be able to make a noise, just yet. so, instead, my slick head wobbles and my legs being to flail once again: attempting to stand is my reply to my mother’s sweet words. 

Standing is the hardest thing I have ever done. It is the only thing I have ever done. But it is still the hardest. My long legs have been folded around me for as long as I have known— they have too many angles! Too much length! My hooves don’t stay where I put them and my body wavers and falls in directions I do not tell it to! 

My frustration is obvious, in small squeaks and snorts, as I fumble against gravity for a long while— the longest while I have known! But, eventually, I am standing. Awkwardly, legs splayed and knobby, pink knees wobbling. But I am up, and I am hungry. I don’t know what hunger actually is, I just know that my pale yellow sides are pained, and so my quickly clearing eyes sharpen on my mother. 

I have just managed to stand. Walking seems impossible to my neonatal brain.

...pucker up