After so many years of haunting this earth, there were few things that stirred true emotion from her. She has seen death – in others, and in herself. She has witnessed sorrow and heartache, and as desperately as she had not wanted to, she has grown more calloused as time went on. Not uncaring or soulless, but there were only so many times that she could break, before she finally steeled herself into becoming something not so easily shattered. Even though there was a twisted part of her that loved that feeling of being torn from the inside out – something sick in her mind that relished in her anguish – she had learned to swallow it away.
She cannot remember the last time she truly allowed herself to feel sorrow She isn’t sure why this girl manages to conjure such an ache in her heart, but when she leans into her touch, she does not withdraw. The way that she touches her is motherly, with her lips working idly at a stray tangle in her mane. “Lethy,” she murmurs her name after the introduction, with a faint smile in response to the story behind it, though she says nothing. She focuses instead of what she asks of immortality, a thoughtful expression darkening her already nearly black eyes as she searches for a way to explain. “It can be hard to watch everyone around you die. Even though there are so many that share the same ability, it’s never a guarantee that the ones you care about most will have it.” She cannot entirely relate in that aspect. Those that had the most impact on her life all had some sort of ability that kept them alive in the most unnatural of circumstances, just like her.
“And there is, of course, the fact that you yourself will never die. And sometimes even if death manages to find you, it doesn’t keep you forever. It’s fine, for awhile; knowing that you’re going to live forever. Until you begin to realize that you’re going to live forever.” She has pulled away from her now; just so that they no longer touch. What she says next is what causes her voice to quiet, a nearly imperceptible melancholy drifting in the notes of it when she says, “Every sorrow that you have ever felt, every pain that you fight to overcome, you realize you will never be away from it.” She thinks of the times that she has actually died, and how sometimes that great expanse of nothing was such a relief from the gaping cavern that rang hollow inside her chest.
And she remembers, so clearly how she had told Carnage that she was not afraid of being dead, because more often than not she would rather feel nothing than to suffer with feeling everything. “Dying can be painful, but being dead...it doesn’t feel like anything. And after hundreds of years of feeling everything, it doesn’t seem so bad.” But she can’t say she wishes for it; not at this very moment, at least.
She doesn’t ask who the father was, because it does not occur to her to do so. There were so few that she knew that still lingered, and she never would have expected it to be her own son. But, she does touch her lips once more to the younger mare’s neck, as she says gently, “You make it easy to be kind to.” It had been so long since she had a conversation where nothing was expected from her; where there wasn’t some underlying agenda that one or both of them had, and for a fleeting moment, she almost feels normal.
@[Izora Lethia]