She sidesteps Wherewolf's flaring wings easily, remembering all the times that he had sprawled them out at her. A gust of air dances through the fine silk of her mane, but Aela is more interested in what has made the Pampas Lord so agitated when he usually couldn't be bothered. The palomino moves around him, but is close enough that the whiplash of his memories sends her momentarily spinning.
(There is a phantom pain in a wing that she has never had. There are multiple versions of the dead foal, grown and glaring. There is the brilliant sheen of a copper coat and bright fury tumbling across the Nerinian moorlands.)
The memories are entwined so closely together that it takes Aela a moment to untangle herself from them. Her gold ears flick back into her flaxen mane, and the Seneschal stares down at the still form of Neverwhere. Her slender head lowers, watching the small foal for any signs of life. Wherewolf had punctured her with his fangs, and reminding herself to keep out of striking distance, Aela moves closer to the dappled corpse on the ground.
Aela had always thought that immortality meant one was impervious to death. You could be injured, you could starve, you could be almost dead, but the thought that Immortal might leave their body was an intriguing one. Had Neverwhere been one? She must have been, to come back again as a child. And her speculative gaze turns back to the buckskin pegasus, wondering if he had killed her more than once.
It's an intriguing thought: pitting Wherewolf's lack of motivation against the hatred of his mother.
"Do you mean to kill her each time?" Aela asks, wondering if even Immortality had its limits.
They doused your soul in water,
but the flames raged higher.
And they called you devil's daughter,
such a pretty liar.
@Wherewolf