Walk with me.
The pregnant doe turned her glowing gaze to meet the pure white glow of a swan, staring up at her patiently. Flowers bloomed over the moss-colored feathers, and though Harrow was not one to simply do as she was told, she decided the talking swan was possibly the least of her concerns.
She followed.
The swan flit ahead of her at times, but waddled next to her for most of it, leading her to a lake. The large avian took to the water and spread her wings. Join me. Harrow stared, unblinking. The swan seemed to sigh. It will alleviate the pressure on your belly.
Slowly, the skeletal doe stepped into the water, exhaling slowly as indeed, the pinch and pressure by her ribs lessened, the ache of gravity relinquishing its hold temporarily. Harrow floated through the deeper portion of the pool, the orange tips of her hair wafting behind her at the deepest, before she returned to wither-height. Swallowing down all her discomfort and general annoyance at actually being found out, she spoke over her back, "How did you know?"
We always know. The swan continued to clean her feathers, preening. I have come to help you.
Harrow turned her gaze to the bird, skull-like grin turned to a toothy frown. "Why?"
It's what we do.
It took a moment, but something clicked into place. Something her father had mentioned, the Swamp taking care of Its Own. Those Touched by the MotherFather Themself. Her frown eased around the edges. "Why?"
The swan turned her elegant neck to regard Harrow, and she felt like her heart fluttered under that bright stare. To give hope.
"Hope?" Harrow echoed the word, incredulous. "That is not the way of the Swamp-born." If a swan could have an expression, this one possibly touched on exasperation. The light of the bird's eyes swallowed its form, and when Harrow looked back from squinting, she beheld - a Kiokote? "...you are not -- "
"No," the Ascended agreed and dismissed the argument in a word, gliding (floating?) over to the pregnant doe. Harrow could smell the flowers that budded on her fur, mesmerized by the shapes the mare's long mane took in the water. "I am of the Plains, beloved by a son of the Desert, Touched by the MotherFather in Their Swamp. And, whether you have hope in your heart or not, I am here to pass Their blessing to your children. Just as it was passed to you."
Drawing in a sharp breath of surprise, Harrow blinked several times as if to clear the vision of the Ascended. It didn't work. "Was it -- ?"
"No," the mare said again, "and I could not say, only that we recognize our own." The Kiokote smiled, but Harrow was not exactly soothed. Awestruck, a little, but without comfort. "So I ask you this, once, and beg that you consider: what would you pass to your children, young mother, were you able to choose?"
Harrow swallowed, feeling parched even in the middle of the pool. She dipped her head to drink of the water, eyes not leaving the Kiokote, trying to think and buy time. If this strange thing was serious, it could be of a great benefit to her kin -- and if not, the worst that would happen is she'd actually have showed she cared for the mixed breeds she carried. Beloved by a son of the Desert. Apparently they had similar tastes. While she amused herself with her off-humor, the Kiokote waited, patient, expression what Harrow would call matronly, even if she was certain she didn't possess a motherly bone on her own body.
And yet here she was, small body expanding with the result of her choice to spend a few glorious moments with a bright male long left behind.
Her eyes lidded, considering. She wasn't sure she cared what they'd become - it was up to them to survive - but that was all she could ask for in good conscious. The rest was up to them. Lifting her head, the liquid running down the fur of her throat, she met the Kiokote's expectant stare. "Survive. I want them to live." The Ascended didn't blink, but she saw the brows lift slightly in unasked question. Harrow huffed softly. "Look, it's on them if they can make their way in this world. I don't know that I'll ever get to meet them, so I don't have any hopes - only that they survive."
The swan-Kiokote chuckled, a sweet sound that tasted like honey on the back of Harrow's tongue. "Your children will be blessed with the fortitude to survive," she said, and the weight of the words seemed more present and tangible than the water around her body, "and the wisdom to find their own way in life; they will be rich in confidence, enough to make their wayward mother proud." As she spoke the last part, the mare's body condensed into light again, the swan's spread winged form before her. Take care of yourself, young mother. Perhaps we will meet again.
And the swan was gone.
Harrow blinked after the flying form, half thinking she'd just hallucinated the whole thing in a pain-filled haze. Glancing down, she saw a lone rose petal in the lake, from a bloom found no where in the swamp. Harrow leaned down and snapped it up, chewing on it and glancing to the sky again. What was done was done.