This chapter gets a little messy. I don't know a whole lot about horses (the being born part, anyway), so I kept it simple. I based everything on what I remember from reading James Harriot's books, about his life as a large animal vet in farm country in the UK. Any mistakes regarding anatomy or procedure are entirely my own. Thanks for reading!

Proud and Prejudiced

Birth

Vivienne sat bolt upright in the dark, breath harsh in her own ears. She knew the feeling that tingled through her, throbbing at her fingertips and taking the beat of her heart to a fast pitter-pat. It was the same feeling she used to get at home whenever a mare was nearly ready to birth. With a soft groan, she rolled out of bed and stumbled through the dark to her wardrobe, trying to orient herself.

It had been five days since she'd come to Cavall. She spent her days roaming the grounds, often on horseback, with a manservant to accompany her. Lord Wyldon, after a brief tour of the stables and the kennels, retreated to his study and remained there for most of the day. For several hours in the afternoon he could be found in the modest training yards sandwiched between the hillside and the kennels, tilting or practicing other weapons; but Vivienne felt out of place there, and stayed away. He was as inscrutable to her as ever, and she preferred to be with the horses she knew so well, or by herself in her solar. There, at least, she could forget the impending marriage for a while, lost in the books or the harp – forget that this month was supposed to be about learning everything should could about her fiancé. All she had managed to learn was that he loved dogs and horses, liked his privacy, and seemed to possess no emotion whatever.

At least he doesn't have a temper, she reflected, pulling on breeches and a loose cotton shirt. Birthing was messy work, and a dress would only be in the way. Knowing that the midsummer nights could be cool in the hills, she pulled on a wool tunic and heavy boots before slipping out her door and padding down the hall as silently as possible.

Kern, the hostler on duty, was a grizzled fellow who was almost as stoic as his master, if a little more free with drink. Now, he leaned against the side of the spacious stall, pale eyes watching the mare in labor. He looked up when she approached, not seeming surprised.

"Git in, then," he said gruffly when she hesitated by the door. Drawing on a droplet of the mere handful of copper fire that pooled inside of her, she saw the same light blazing from him, and obeyed. It came as no surprise that Kern was as horse-hearted as she was – especially considering his substantial magic.

"How is she?" Vivienne murmured, kneeling beside the mare's head. She was Bazhir, with graceful legs that trembled as her flanks heaved up and down. Already sweat dampened her silver-colored hide, though it was early yet.

"She be doin' fine," the hostler said curtly, as was his way. After several hours a day spent in the stables, she knew he meant no offense – it was simply the way he was. "It's a big foal, colt I'm a-thinkin'."

"Is it her first?" she asked as she ran her hands over the creature's long, corded neck lightly. Although she didn't have enough magic to speak to horses, she had found through trial and error that she had some talent with calming them. Placating stir-crazy stallions was one of her specialties, but so was easing a mare's foaling.

"Aye."

After that, little was said. Vivienne remained kneeling in the straw, pleased with the conditions of the stall, keeping a tiny thread of calm connected between her and the horse. The mare was young and strong, and needed little assistance. But as the pale fingers of dawn spread through the cracks in the stable wall, it became apparent that something was amiss.

Moving slowly, Kern crouched at the mare's side and placed his work-worn hands on her belly. The great head tossed fitfully, scattering straw, and the mare's nostrils flared as she grunted for breath.

"Breached?" Vivienne whispered.

"Nay. Th' legs be tangled. He's wedged jist so, she cain't shift 'im on her own."

"What do you need me to do?"

Kern's weathered mouth pursed in concentration. "Fetch soap an' water – cold'll have t' do. See if ye cain't find some o' that rubbin' oil milord keeps for the finer tack."

Almost a whole week was more than enough time for her to know where these things could be found. Standing, she reluctantly severed the thread – she had almost no range to speak of when it came to her magic – and left the stall quickly. She'd helped with breach-births before, and they were far more serious than this. With a little extra lubrication, the foal was sure to be coaxed out into the world.

Vivienne returned swiftly with the required items, and they both rolled up their sleeves and washed their hands briskly. He muttered brief instructions, more intent on the mare than on her, but she wasn't concerned. This wasn't the first time she'd done this, after all.

"Why don't you let me?" she said as he reached for the bottle of pale, lightly scented grapeseed oil. "My hands are smaller."

He looked at her dubiously. "Tain't proper, miss."

"Piffle. If I'm to be lady here, I have every right to participate in each step of the breeding process, including the dirty work."

His large nose wrinkled, but he finally agreed.

Lathering her arm generously with the oil, Vivienne drew out a little more of the copper fire. It was dwindling fast, but after tonight – or this morning, rather – she would have plenty of time to replenish it. With capable hands she moved the mare's snowy white tail out of the way and slipped her arm into the birth canal. She felt the problem immediately. With her cheek resting against the sweaty, musky flank, buried up to her shoulder in wet flesh that squeezed painfully with each contraction, she found the foal's damp head. At the unexpected contact, it shuddered, lipping her palm, and a grin broke across her face.

"Alive and well," she gasped as another contraction made her bones creak, though there was little need to say so. Kern's magic told him everything, and he guided her with words as he sensed what needed to be done.

"His forelegs be all jumbled with 'is hind 'uns. Ye need t' try grabbin' 'em and pull 'im forward so he can git unstuck."

Gritting her teeth and thanking her tall father for her long limbs, Vivienne strained further until her slick hands found the spindly forelegs she sought. The intense, rhythmic pressure of the mare's contractions made her muscles feel like rubber, but somehow she managed to coax the tangled limbs into some semblance of order. Her wrist screamed briefly, and then the mare's body relaxed.

"There. I shifted 'er a bit so he ain't so stuck." Kern wiped perspiration off his forehead with one hand. "Come on out o' there afore milord comes and sees I let ye get yerself all muckied up."

"A bit late for that, I think," came a level, emotionless voice. Vivienne gritted her teeth as she let yet another contraction push her arm out and away from the birth canal, and sat up. Lord Wyldon leaned against the open stall door, regarding her with something strange in his dark eyes – could it be respect?

Vivienne shook out her arm and stood, wobbling a bit as she tried to push her curls out of her face and blot the sweat from her brow at the same time.

"Don't blame Kern," she said, sounding as tired as she felt. "I insisted."

He didn't say anything, but his strong hands took her elbows, helping her to totter to the side of the stall where she sat heavily in the straw. He was dressed as she was, she realized, except that he was barefoot. His white shirt was a little worn around the edges, tucked into faded brown breeches. As he squatted next to Kern and the mare, she watched curiously. There was something just beneath the surface, something powerful, that she couldn't name – like rapids were rushing just below his skin.

"How goes it?"

"Better, milord," Kern replied, as gruff as though he hadn't been caught with his master's fiancée's arm up the birth canal of a foaling mare. "He should come out easy, now."

True to his prediction, the foal was born a few minutes later. He was white, speckled with gray and black; his muzzle, ears, and lower legs were all gray. The frizz that was his mane and tail were gray as well.

Wyldon apparently felt that sackcloth was not good enough for the colt, because he didn't hesitate to pull his shirt over his head and begin rubbing the newborn down. Vivienne, barely sixteen, had never seen a man without his shirt off before; she was torn between looking away and blatantly staring. She compromised, keeping her gaze carefully averted from the easy slide of muscles under tanned skin and focusing only on his hands, surprisingly gentle as they handled the newborn foal.

The mother, relieved to have that over with, hauled herself into a more upright position in order to inspect her firstborn. All was well. Kern left the stall with a quick salute, leaving them alone with the horses. Vivienne smiled to herself as she watched the mother and colt exploring one another. Already he was moving restlessly, trying to get his legs under him. This was always the most exciting time to her. After hours of labor and sweat, the mares found new life in the way their newborns explored the world, and this one was no exception. Rolling to her feet, the mare shook her mane and bent to nuzzle the struggling colt.

Vivienne was so immersed in the small miracle happening right in front of her that she forgot Wyldon was there, too. At least, she forgot until he leaned forward, body tense, as the colt finally got his legs under him. Had he gasped? The stoic Lord of Cavall had gasped? Realizing she was staring at him – especially the broad expanse of his shoulders, and the hard planes of his back – Vivienne forced her eyes back to the foal. He was up, finally, though his stick-like legs still trembled. With hesitant movements he turned his head towards his mother, seeking nourishment.

That was their cue to leave. Vivienne stood quickly by herself before he could offer assistance, and walked out of the stall on weak-kneed legs. Wyldon followed a touch more slowly, soiled shirt in his hands. Without words, they made their way back to the house. She was slipping back into her rooms when his voice stopped her.

"Vivienne." He stopped, coloring slightly. "Lady Vivienne."

She waited, thrown off-balance by this uncharacteristic show of emotion. "Yes?"

"I – I would like to…" He stopped and cleared his throat, bowing as formally as if he were clad in the doublet and hose of a nobleman, and she in the skirts of a lady at a ball. "Forgive me. I failed to recognize your skill and love of horses. You performed quite admirably."

Feeling a little giddy – perhaps it was the long night, though a traitorous part of her mind was inclined to blame it on the very attractive, very male picture he presented clad only in a pair of breeches – Vivienne smiled at him for the first time with genuine happiness. "Thank you, my lord." Before her addled brain could convince her to do something foolish, like take his hand, she disappeared into her rooms and shut the door firmly.