There's a certain contentment, perhaps a smugness, that comes with the knowledge of her pregnancy. Even when slim hips ache with the weight of foal and spine complains against lengthy travels, the rose maiden feels a certain degree of pride. The life inside her will be raised true, on a path far straighter than the one her mother had led her down, convoluted and solitary. No matter the gender she will raise them, love them, teach them how to protect themselves and step all over those who wished to take them down. With the philosophy of the stag who had placed the babe within her belly, she doubted the Corporal would have much to object against. It was perhaps ironic, the daughter of the temptress finding no qualms in a loveless union, and yet delighting in the life that had been the outcome of it. Love had abandoned her long ago, and with it any innocence she may have clung to. It disappeared in shattered emerald eyes and simpering tones, and with a broken trust she'd never looked back.

Over time, the dame had learned that looking back wasn't an option anyways. Nothing could be mended with the desire to return in time to the moment when it was broken, and one could only look forward, hoping the rift could be smoothed with future decisions. Yet she'd never seen Tingal since that moment with him in the cavern, when she had ran off shielding her broken heart protectively, spitting venomous words to keep him from attempting to follow behind her as he always had. A soft sigh leaves pale lips, heterochromatic eyes closing, long ivory lashes brushing like eskimo kisses over her cheeks. Revels in the shade of the trees as she shifts her hips, wincing at the ache that resounds in her very bones. Groans softly on the wings of her exhalation, recovering in the shuddering leaves overhead as she shelters herself from the heat of the summer sun. It is beautifully coincidental that little Arya would be born in the same season as her dam, and Hotaru had no qualms with the connection with her unborn foal.

Her love was unconditional for little Arya. It transcended realms she'd never anticipated, and mutely wondered in the silence of the nights she spent alone how Phaedra could have possibly felt anything different. Such a thing was nearly incomprehensible for the slim youth. Arya had not even left the sanctuary of her body, and she loved her so deeply she would move mountains and sway the Gods to keep her safe. Déodat may not have anticipated the joining, nor felt anything for her aside from platonic companionship, but he had blessed her with the greatest gift she could ever have been given.

Strangled, heavy breathing lifts her harks. What in the world...? Closed eyes flutter open, suddenly wary of the trees she had previously been so thankful for. Quietly she advances, lovingly cursing her rounded sides that press at nearby branches and make silence an impossible goal. Does not call out as she moves, pale hooves delicately picking out the perfect spot to place themselves, a habit she has happily picked up in order to prevent any possible slips that could endanger Arya. Trades her dual-colored gaze between the earth below and the path ahead, breathing softly and unhappily shaking the ache in her bones as she moves.

Turns. Feels the breath still in her throat.

Tiger stripes. Ram horns. Deep green eyes. Orange pelt.

It's a form she knows better than any other, if only due to constant exposure instead of sentimental memorization. Hotaru's insides shutter, but she steels them against the nerves that twinge from various emotional bases. No, she will not be that terrified little filly that could not stand up against his pathetic gaze and endearing words. She is a warrior, and needs no love aside from her own to validate her existence, to prove her worth and power. He is nothing to her now, a memory like a phantom pain, a missing limb she'd personally removed. His love is a ghost, haunting her past; she does not need him, she does not fear him. Time has made her stronger.

So she moves forward, engages him head on, brow arched as she readjusts the silver crescent moon upon her forehead. "Tingal." His name is ancient on her tongue, old soil and dusted-over memories, well-worn on her lips yet new with age. An unwanted familiarity. "So you're alive." Words fail her, instead deigning her response fitting. There is no desire to welcome him back, nor to question where he's been or how he has been faring. No. He does not deserve such courtesies, for the petite princess had a grudge streak the length of Helovia, and he had been effectively smeared beneath it.

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Permission for pregnancy liquid time <3