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

[mandan]

“Yes we did,” he beams proudly. This is what his mother meant when he asked why she had foal after foal season after season. It was because of this feeling of contribution, continuation, of proud modesty that sounds like an oxymoron but makes sense because foals are the cause of pride but are also somehow humbling in their tinyness and innocence. For a stallion, he can be obtuse at times but this, he understands - a father’s love and pride made up in such tiny perfection with a beautiful pink little star on her head. His eyes find hers’ as she states her declaration of love quietly but soundly; he cannot help but nuzzle her neck and seek her ear with his lips. “I love you too, Ygritte.” It is solemn and sure, as sure as the blood in his veins and the life in every breath he took - she had so subtly and so quickly become his entire world, and now too, their daughter who stirred from her sleep and looked at them with sleepy eyes like they had disturbed her. Mandan couldn’t help but chuckle and then come forward to nuzzle her little brow, “Wake up Joss,” he cajoles gently, nudging her fuzzy little rump. He’s eager to take her exploring, even at a tender age because well… he’s a stallion and he simply doesn’t know any better but he knows this is his daughter and she’s strong like both of them - is the best of both of them, and he would never let harm befall her. “Get some rest my love,” he encourages his tired mate. “I’ll look after her and we won’t go far, but you need to sleep too.” He turns back to nuzzle her neck lovingly, knowing that she needs to rest and recover from the strain of pregnancy and he is thinking of showing either the trees of the waterfall to Joss, or both - he’s excited, it shows in the tight eagerness of his muscles, the restraint clear as he remains between the two of them but somehow altogether anticipatory and raring to go.