Something had gone wrong, terribly wrong he would say- terribly and wonderfully wrong. Weir hadn’t meant for anything awful to happen, in fact, he wasn’t sure just how awful it all was in the end. The roan male wanted to help, he wanted to find his friend, he wanted to see if the rumor was true. That gathering, their journey was supposed to be a rescue mission, a search and rescue mission to exact. Search for whom? Warship of course. It seems he was not so dead as one might think, not so deceased as he himself had been led to believe after the nightmare of the War had ended. In fact Warship was alive, very much alive and both Kimber and Prague had assured him of this.

Was it his fault they had found him? Was it his fault that the magic mistress had her own agenda? Certainly not I say, most certainly not.

Of course he couldn’t just stand by as she meddled, couldn’t let the Amazon do her bidding because it would have meant the end of his dearest friend. It would have meant death and this time that death would have been certain. Weir simply could not sit and watch, could not allow this to happen, Weir meddled and in turn he was meddled with.

He meant to divert the Magic, he hoped to turn it in on itself, to change that death sentence to one of life and in a way he did. For months he did not realize exactly what this meant, for a time he only thought he had made himself terribly ill in consequence but as he grew (or rather, his stomach grew) he knew better. In attempt to spare life had created it, in a way he had played God and in return he now held life within him- much like a woman would. Well, exactly like a woman would. In his haste and hurry Weir had made himself pregnant with that Magic, Weir was going to be a ‘Mother’.

Go ahead, laugh, it is quite the humorous ordeal he knows. Still even in its hilarity he can not help but think what a grand adventure in science this is. He would be a Mother, isn’t that something?

What isn’t really something, is the sickness that overtakes him with this so called Motherhood. The aches and pains that accompany the stretching of his insides, the burden of his weight. Lately he finds that he can’t do much more than waddle to and fro across the Dale, belly swaying awkwardly side to side with each step. At times it’s hard to breathe and mostly he just wants to sleep, which is what he decides to do now. A gentle spring afternoon is just the kind of day that calls for nap, ask anyone.

He doesn’t know that it snows now as he dozes, doesn’t know that he causes the air to chill and the sky to fall without asking it to. Weir also doesn’t know that the accumulation of moisture not only brings fresh, white powder, it also brings with it two young foals that shake free of the impromptu winter….

Sleep, of course he was good at sleep wasn’t he? As Weir dozed the world around him went on, and the roan man was none the wiser. Isn’t that funny and a bit odd how that works? Beqanna’s potentially most intelligent creature oblivious to the world like that? It’s true, it happens and today it did just that.

As he slept, the world continued, as the world will always do, and from that continuity sprang life just as once he had summoned it into himself without knowing. That’s the link, the similarity and as he snored snow fell precariously from the sky in late spring. Each tiny flake fluttered to the earth, lining the green meadow with a blanket cover of pure and pristine alabaster. Eventually, beneath the fine powder, new life emerged and that new life was life which Weir had unknowingly brought to the world. One boy and one girl. The boy had managed quite well to shake himself free of the drifts, squealing loudly at the world as if the entire situation was indignant of him, and maybe it was. Sadly enough he didn’t hear his own cries, nor would he ever but nothings perfect and even deafness is no imperfection by most rates.

Weir sleeps as the child cries but we can imagine that he is coming to by now, slow as ever. The presence of Phaedrus is, for the time, unnoticed in his sleep, as well as the approach of his dearest love Eira. It is lucky that she arrives when she does, clearing the snow and revealing beneath a particular heap a dark colored girl, still snoozing herself it seems.

Only when she beckons him, Eira that is, does he stir, groaning as he does so. Each limb stretching, twisting perhaps a little as he opens his amber eyes to the bright sun. A few times he blinks, looking at nothing in particular as the regains focus in his sight and the last bits of sleep brush themselves away on his lashes. Now you can imagine what an odd thing this is to wake up to, a gathering of sorts and no prior knowledge of such an occasion. “Eira?” he asks sleepily, a yawn pulling his lips apart until his mouth is wide. “Phaedrus?” he wonders, looking up at the blue and black male and wondering why everyone is staring and why they are all gawking at him so.

It is then that the dulcet tones of the first child reach his ears, shrill as they are it is a wonder he hasn’t registered them until now. In his grogginess Weir asks, “Newton?” before turning his rusty head and seeing that it is not Newton at all. Not only is it not Newton but there is another unknown child laying beside him, and they are all covered in snow. Weir thinks on this a moment, looking at the two new children and back to the two horses standing before him. Back and forth, back and forth and then only then, does he turn his head and neck to look at his deflated stomach. At this his eyes grow wide, turning to look back at Eira and Phaedrus before speaking. “How on Earth?” he gulps, as if they could even begin to know or explain this conundrum.