After six hours of labor, Elmarea is born on a cold April morning in Canterlot castle’s medical wing. Her birth is healthy, but that doesn’t stop Hockim from nearly breaking my hoof with a worried grip. There are few times my husband lets others see him cry, but foalbearing has remained an exception. He heaves the same deep-chested sobs as when we had Daydream, cradling our new daughter in his hooves. He strokes her mane, pink like mine when I was born.
“Look, look, love,” he says, wiping away tears and snot from his crumpled face. “She has your wings.”
He motions to pass her to me, and I hold her for the very first time.
I’m astounded by how light she is. In total, Elmarea weighs just eight pounds, half of what Daydream was when he first arrived. The doctor reminds us of how fragile she is, her small, hollow bones vulnerable to the world. She’ll need to rest in a cloud crib for the first six months of her life.
I nod along with the doctor, the numbness from the epidural still rolling through my body. The room smells of sweat and tears and triumph. I know I must look disheveled and half crazy—some kind of pastel catastrophe—but I don’t care.
There’s a skittering of hooves outside the door, followed by a hushed scolding. Hockim and I brace ourselves as our son bursts into the room. Luna is hot on his tail, trying her best to reprimand Daydream for running through the halls, but our colt has bigger concerns. Rearing up, he lands his front legs on the end of the bed, stretching his neck as tall as it can go. He locks eyes with me like the world’s youngest police interrogator.
“Aunt Luna told me having a foal is harder than doing math. Is that true?” he asks.
Luna’s wings make a midnight curtain in front of her face. “Judge me not, sister. I can only withstand his incessant questioning for so long.”
Luna always slips back to her old way of speaking when she’s flustered. I find it quite charming, actually, but she hates it when I say that out loud.
“You know you can ask him to take a break, right?” Hockim says, walking over to rustle Daydream’s mane.
“You can do that? Just…ask foals to stop speaking?” Luna says, peeking from between her feathers. Her eyes narrow with a distrust only siblings can feel.
“It’s always worth a shot.” I shrug, wearing a tired smile. “Now come here, both of you. Say hello to Elmarea.”
Hockim has to hold Daydream back like he’s an excited puppy, but the earth pony genes in our son are strong. He all but drags Hockim to my side, eyes wide and suddenly quiet. Peering at my hooves, he sees her for the first time.
For once, Daydream doesn’t know what to say.
His face is blankly innocent as he retreats back into Hockim’s embrace, brow furrowed. I share a glance with my husband. He gives me a silent nod and mouths I got this before taking Daydream to sit down. The doctor looks between me and my sister, coughs into her hoof, and tells us she needs to clean her stethoscope.
There’s silence between us, save for the quiet mutterings of my husband and son in the corner. I’m holding my breath without realizing it. She’s hesitant, timid, even after all these years.
Finally, Luna reaches out a wing, brushing it over Elmarea. Her voice is the softest I’ve heard it since we were foals. “Hello there, little one. You’re quite beautiful, you know. You look…so much like your mother already.”
Elmarea shifts against my barrel, a movement so small I wouldn’t have noticed were I not looking at her. She’s weightless compared to me. I have a horrible thought that she’s going to blow away with a light breeze, and it takes everything in me not to crush her against me. A tear of pure exhaustion builds in the corner of my eye.
“I’m proud of you, Tia.”
Maybe it’s my sleep-addled brain, or maybe it’s the fact that I gave birth only a few hours ago, but words jam in my throat. Something unintelligible fumbles out, and Luna giggles like a school-foal. “I imagine it’s been a while since you’ve heard those words, but it’s true, sister.”
By the sun, it has. It’s got a strange sort of joy to it, like unearthing a strange memento you thought you’d lost ages ago. Daydream’s birth was such a rush of creatures and dignitaries and, well, it just didn’t feel very private. It was more of a spectacle than anything else. I think Luna and I celebrated with a very official-looking hug and a nod, which seems dreadfully snobbish now that I think about it. But sitting here just talking like a normal family feels…right.
Before I know it, we’re both giggling like fillies.
“Thank you, Luna. And you’re right, it’s nice to be on the receiving end of that for once.”
“I’ll try to remember that.” Luna smirks, then addresses my daughter. “As for you, Ms. Elmarea, you’re not allowed to grow up like your mother. Equestria can’t handle two Celestias at once, I’m afraid.” Elmarea coos and yawns. My heart melts in my chest. Luna leans in close and whispers in her ear. “I can’t wait for your first dream, little one.”
There’s a new sweetness to her voice that I’ve never heard before. I want to say something, but Daydream interrupts by popping his head between me and Luna. He looks at his sister again, this time confident and stoic.
“Hi. You’re really small. When your brain gets older, I’m gonna read you Daring Do and stuff. It’s one of my favorite things ever,” he states, then looks up at me. “Was that a good introduction?”
We laugh, and I lean down to kiss his forehead. “Yes, Daydream, you did a wonderful job,” I tell him.
I get that sense again—that everything is just as it should be, and it fills me with a warmth I haven’t felt in centuries.