Her first instinct is to recoil and to gnash her teeth and to curse him for daring to touch her. And if not for all that unbearable weight and the way the exhaustion has hollowed out her bones, she would have. But the most she can manage now, heavy and tired, is a low hiss. A hiss that has never worked to deter him before and certainly does not work now.
He beckons her closer but she does not budge, makes him come to her instead. A stiff embrace, certainly. And she wonders, quite abstractly, what he wants from her. She hates how weak the child in her gut has made her. So weak that she has spent the majority of her pregnancy hidden away, lest someone see her in such a state.
Perhaps it only makes sense that he should be the first one to find her. To find her without her fight. Just as they had found each other years before. Shivering, alone, all fight.
He murmurs into her mane and she lets him, wonders what it is he’s getting at. And then, when he bestows his gift upon her, she frowns in turn. She wants to cast herself out of his reach, to study his face, but he folds his wings around her and she is powerless.
“Pangea is yours,” she says, the only explanation.
