Across the Dimension the antemeridian shimmered into place, its chromatic nebular canvas watercolored with twilit canary, translucent fuchsia, chilean fire in the west, washing gently into feijoa, picton blue, a tranquil navy and splashing out with a cod grey of night. The world was suspended between morning and night, hung in wait for the rooster's crow or zephyr's stir. The pizazz of morning glory was spreading gradually over the sea, her sun's crown emerging from a long chardonnay ribbon and blinding the absent passer-by. Yet opposite such magnificence lurks a solitude shadow land, reluctant to allow its silver chalice to sink into the pits of dismal slumber. Such was the land of the Crest at this hour, cast into shadow, the last to receive the blessed royal heath of the morn. In such a waiting state the Dimension was pale in comparison to the brilliant vermilions of sunset, or the bitter orchid whites of moonrise. Its countenance was leeched of the sopping moisture it had acquired during the previous day's rain by the thirsty atmosphere, the quagmire spongy but lacking a swamped manifestation. Ordinarily vehement atmosphere's neutral exhale is sensed as uncharacteristically ennoble and placate, tickling the jaded blades of the meadow as opposed to forcefully whipping them into disarray. Through the winter atmosphere journeyed a sylphlike mare of almond frost and dusty greys, her strides were lengthy in manifestation, though each were preceded by a perturbed hesitation. Fulcrums splayed at a vile angle at each moment of stillness, her svelte limbs dragging bare hooves across the doughy soil and jaded grass. Her abdomen had become narrow and deep within a brief epoch, where it had previously been shallow and bulged, triggering an instinctive warning system within her. The direction she took was accurate and clearly distinguished, winding her way about the hazardous crevices and remaining drifts of reluctantly melting snow. There comes in one's life, a time when one must reflect on what has been. Tradition was highly regarded in this mare; it is the foundation of family. Therefore she transported her changing shape to the emerald and oxley glade in which she was delivered to the world. Reaching the towering oak forests’ brink, an intangible shiver rippled across her chassis, whether in response to the uneasy feeling and pressure against her bladder, or the cold that gnawed straight to the bone. Through the random and reaching trees she strode, her progress slow but determined, fathomless gaze darting into the shadows before she took her first step into them. She had gone through too much, found too little, to be brought down now by something she did not fear. It did not take long to arrive at her destination, a quaint and yet undiscovered clearing set just over the border separating Eaglecrest and her homeland. The memories were recalled individually, with a great steadiness and capable mind. She stood, her breathing deep and halting, her eyes gently closed to receive everything she remembered, trying to calm her forlorn nerves.

Fartleque's sculpted features, perspiration beading on her bay forehead smiled down at her, and yet there was something deeper set in that gaze. It was agony, a pain set so strongly within her soul that she could not lock it away. It was wisdom and it was sorrow, the sort of sorrow that could cripple and make defenceless. For four hours she aided her daughter, and as they came to a conclusion she crooned to the sky, and looked back to the milky, innocent figure of Topaz. I hope you never loose your sense of wonder, Topaz Arete. The words swam about her adult self, they engulfed her, and echoed throughout the atmosphere. Aloof had come, the pearl angel had travelled with Fartleque's croon to the stars in her teacup radars; she had run from Night Walker's very hooves. But her mother... oh… her mother had left, had fled and left Topaz alone in the world, but for the silver beauty that so welcomingly embraced her as she screamed in agony, knowing somehow that she would never see that lovely mare again. Those words, she had lived by those words, had never lost her sense of wonder, had never traded in her wings for the second hand pair.

With her third reverberating contraction Topaz sank to the ground, her eyes encasing her in lowly darkness whilst she neatly folded her limbs beneath the straining venter. Her nostrils quivered beneath the weight of a heady exhale in response to such outlandish pain, resting her sable velvet muzzle against the cool moss. Against her cheek the cool tears ran, seeping unchecked from the shadowed depths of her soul. Memories… they were the beautiful collision between emotion and the past, the essence upon which we are built. Resplendent exterior is thus ravaged by the process of birth, sweat beading and mingling with the desperate tears. The pain did not rip through her; it sat still and foreign within her, a throbbing in her anterior. Two tiny, barely formed hooves penetrated their sack, making way for the dainty, gangly limbs and carven head. Topaz laid her head upon the ground once more, her eyes closing to the effort. And then, the friction ceased, the child glided from her anterior to the ground, struggling to gain use of its rear legs. Relief. Glorious relief swept over the foal’s mother, resting for a moment before maneuvering her beached self to aid the youth. A colt, dappled dark grey with an ambitious glint naturally within his gaze, his eyes blinking blearily at Topaz was thus born. She nuzzled him warmly for a moment, and then was stunned. Another contraction shuddered through her as the colt struggled to rise. The sensation she felt was not so much of surprise as uncertainty, but the natural instinct to push ensued.

Barely minutes later she rose, her breath halting and ragged as she greeted the twins the cowered beneath her. Brother and sister they stuck close together, aiding each other in the race to suckle. The filly was an odd shade of Irish coffee, sharing a light speckle of roan upon the muzzle with her dam. Reaching forward Topaz took to the work of a mother, her radiant but sweaty features shimmering with a magnificent, unrivalled happiness. The ambitious colt was quick to rise, and staggered to his mother’s muzzle, before focusing on the orders his stomach supplied. The filly, however, took a more graceful approach. Rising and falling, she would not move until her walk was both dignified and elegant, thus delaying suckling for thirty minutes or so. Both possessed the fathomless, haunted eyes of their mother, and had adopted a slightly dished pate, minimised by their andalusian father. It was a long time before their dam spoke, her tone cooing and soft;

“Elingaes, Nyx; I hope you never loose your sense of wonder.”

The colt simply fixed her with a curious look, puzzled at the strange noises this mare emitted, whilst Nyx moved easily to her shoulder, her tiny muzzle seeking comfort from the nip her brother had so rudely applied it. Through the trees at last shimmered the sun, raised to shine his chardonnay light on the trio, finishing the story in perfection.

An hour later they had emerged from the blessed oxley glade, the foals could not be hugging closer to the warmth and security of their mother; she could not be more comforting to their innocent minds. They stood alone, the trees reaching and canoodling the empyrean behind them, the meadow stretched in glorious morning before them. Topaz’s dark nostrils quiver beneath the weight of a contented sigh, her muzzle bending to the wee foals cowering on her starboard side.

The journey was over.
Fartleque and Aloof were a grandmothers.
Betrayal, was a grandfather.
Scarlett was a great aunty.
Kain was a great grandfather.
Anubis was a great grandmother.
Devil’s Arithmetic and Night Walker were great, great grandfathers.
Safinaz and Invisible were great, great grandmothers.
Ravage was a great, great uncle.
Rosemary and Chiana godmothers.
Chronic and Hush were godfathers.
But most of all…. Most of all
Sultan was a father.