— I'll break you a hundred different ways —
He has been worried, but he does his best not to show it.
It was easy enough to hide such things from her, since his face was always drawn from stone, and it was not uncommon for him to be silent for stretches at a time. But from the moment he had realized she was pregnant, there had been a lingering unease that grew into tense apprehension. There was a small, secret part of him that was pleased in knowing that the life that grew inside of her was his – theirs. But there was an even larger part of him that could not forget the scene that he had stumbled across when he found Choke. He still remembers the lifeless body of Capture, still remembers the scent of blood, afterbirth, and death. He hadn’t felt guilt back then; he hadn’t known that mare well enough to care. He had hardly cared that it was birthing his own son that had killed her, and he would have been content to leave the boy to the wolves if it weren’t for the fact that Wonder had found him. He learned to tolerate him, but only for her.
Because Wonder, without even trying, had changed so much about him. And he knows, though he tries not to dwell on it, that if he lost her, he would be over with. There would be no coming back, no relearning how to harden all the place she had softened. She had saved and ruined him in so many ways, and he isn’t sure if she even realizes it.
When they awakened that morning, and he feels the dampness of her neck, he is surprised at the nervous knot that coils tightly in his gut. There is nothing he can do for her, no way that he can assure that the outcome of this will not be like what he had witnessed before. He has never voiced his fears to her – of course not, since he hardly ever voiced anything – but instead had kept them silent and dormant, letting them build and brew until he nearly chokes on them. The lines of his face are harder than usual, and there is almost a cold, impersonal shadow to his dark eyes when he watches her labor. He doesn’t want her to see the worst case scenarios that are storming through his mind, and the only way he knows to do that is to shut her out.
But he stays with her, quiet and unflinching whenever she might press into him, sometimes responding with a feather-light touch to her poll, or brushing his muzzle against the wings marked against her chest. He follows her to the waves, a soundless shadow, and when her pain increases, so does the panic he has buried so deep inside.
When they find themselves back in their small den, and she is forced to ground and the sounds of pain coming from her lips finally wear on him, his resolve breaks.
He lowers his head, his lips touching her cheek, and her damp neck as she struggles. His breath is warm when it is expelled across her skin, and the stony lines of his face have softened considerably. He rubs the softness of his muzzle against her neck, trailing up near her ear and murmuring quiet, nearly inaudible things; he tells her, and himself, that she’s going to be okay, and he only hopes he sounds more convincing than he feels. He doesn’t know how long it takes for it to be over, but it feels like an impossible amount of time, and he finds himself regretting that he had ever touched her and put her in this situation.
But she – a small, bay sabino filly – is finally born, and he cannot deny the relief that washes over him. He watches her stir, small and glowing, with opal hooves like her mother, and he doesn’t know how to respond to the clenching in his chest. He touches Wonder first, pressing his lips to the top of her head, and then watches her tend and clean their daughter. There’s a faint, almost crooked smile when she comments on her wings, and that is when he finally reaches to brush his muzzle lightly against the newborn’s muzzle. She had bright turquoise eyes – like the ocean waters he had first seen Wonder in – and he echoes the name suggestion quietly to voice his agreement, “Rosine.”
— and I'll make you remember my face —
