the stars in her eyes; birthing--mandan, any

[mandan]

He is always near, anticipating the moment that she will rouse him and tell him it is time for the birth of their foal. This is not a thing that he wants to miss but knows too, that most stallions do not witness such a sacred moment as birth but this is his first foal and he will be there whether his mate wants him to be or not, even if he has to watch from afar. He is beside his mate, afoot while she lies abed, so very tired these days, he has noticed. Concern is a familiar shadow that clouds his face as her condition furthers, seems to worsen, though he knows she is tougher than most despite that delicate frame of hers. She stirs at his feet and he looks down at her, frowning - he knows what has woke her, the impending birth, and he surveys the morning in which a sun has yet to rise from amidst the trees, he thinks its warmth would be welcome to her right now, as soothing as his presence perhaps. Mandan is roused further from his fruitless dozing (he sleeps little by her side, preferring to remain alert and awake despite the fact that they are safe from any harm here, old instincts die hard) by her groan and his name whispered painfully; he nudges her gently, hoping to steady her as she climbs clumsily to her feet, fat and swaying and ready to burst, and his heart swells fit to burst with love for her as he looks proudly upon his mate. He trails after her, nibbling at the grass along the way; he’s not hungry, it’s just something to do to pass the time until she finds a plot of earth that seems to swallow her up in a grassy embrace. Mandan stays a small distance away, anxious and curious as the earth and her flanks grow wet with birth fluid and then his ears prick forward and his eyes shine brighter when the hooves slide forth, followed by long legs (longer than he remembers his own to have been!) and the body at last! He whickers to Ygritte, encouraging and humbled by what has just taken place; he is so very, very proud of her for enduring that! The bay watches as his mate cleans their foal and the little one pushes against her, eager to suckle and he cannot help but chuckle at the picture of them, so very quaint and beautiful together. “Well done my love,” he commends her, his voice a soft thunderous boom of pride and happiness. He watches Ygritte bolster their daughter - he can see it is a filly now - to stand for the first time, and the filly is a quick study after a few tries that involve falling down, she is upright and wobbly and more precious to him than anything else in the world besides his beloved. “Can I come closer?” he asks, wary of this new mother-mare that is his mate, he remembers watching others kick and bite at those that came too close, so he prefers to err on the side of caution and seek her permission first. His head lowers to show he is no threat to them as he inches forward a step or two; “You name her my love, you did all the hard work.” He smiles broadly at Ygritte and their daughter.