It was not difficult to read the room. Terance did not hide his emotions, and Arbiter, though not an easy read, and her displeasure were clear enough. Hydra could not know what they were thinking, but she felt like a madwoman herself in this moment because he was right. None of this made any sense. Not their arrival here, not the forgetting, and the torture she endured to know that she had once again been forgotten. With no one to blame, Hydra's resentment had no place to go. It would never fall upon herself, and Terance... well, Hydra's own care for him saved him from herself thus far.
Had Hydra been younger, she might have blamed Arbiter—but she was old enough now to know that was a senseless thing in of itself. No matter what the other thought of her—which Hydra could only guess—she kept her own judgments reserved for the woman. The other had yet to speak thus far, and so there was nothing for her to think. Terance might not be the brightest, but the matriarch refused to believe he would wed a halfwit like... like...
Who? The name escaped her. The vexation, though, remained. Deep-rooted and ugly as it ever was.
Terance spoke, and as he spoke from where he had come proverbial fingers pulled at the cobwebs in her own mind. They had known each other for so long, but what would make sense to him here? At once, she knew. His parents had been their own beginning, long ago. If he did not know her, perhaps he would know this: “your mother was a friend to my father, Charon,” she remembered, “I was born upon Moonspear, before waking here,” and to his other question, she answered, “Her I knew only in name.”
But still, she felt mad for this; there was no recognition from him, as he looked upon her. She was an absolute stranger to him. And as Arbiter spoke, Hydra looked to her. The other was trying to make sense of it, Hydra could understand, and it would be all too easy to simply agree and say, ah, yes, that is right. I am mistaken. Then she could simply walk away from this, from them, and let Terance become nothing but a stranger. It might be a selfless and selfish act, simultaneously, to not burden Terance with the weight of her memories and to give herself some immediate relief. But said relief would be short-lived for her, and Hydra was far too selfish to allow herself to carry the weight of this alone.
“No,” she answered simply. No. There was no making sense of this. This was madness.
Hydra hated it. She looked back to Terance, half wanting to throttle him to see if that might inspire any familiarity and half wanting to walk away. This task felt fruitless, and it would be a fools errand to engage further. Of that much, she was aware. “You truly do not remember me,” she recognized, and she knew that prolonging the acceptance of it would only cause her more pain. Still, she was not there quite yet. Not today. All the same, she knew that nothing she could say, nothing she could do, would change this... and she was quite unwilling to bang her head against stone hoping to change the shape of it.
Years with him, gone for one but not the other; she felt she had been dealt a cruel hand, and she could not understand why. One would think there was an advantage, to know all while the other did not—but she felt powerless, especially in knowing him. Terance, who enjoyed his mother stories but could not spin one well for the life of him. Who liked to look at the stars. Who had fought alongside her. Who had been one of her closest and dearest confidants before... but he had apologized for that, he had realized—
All of that, the highs, the lows, all of that gone. His stare lacked any recognition, and even if he knew her fathers name, her homelands name, he still did not know her own.
There was no giving him the weight of that. This was something she would need to carry alone. In him, she could sense the desire to understand... but in his companion, a wolf she imagined she would always be second to as surely as she had been to the rest of the wolves in his life, she could sense no such compassion or desire. Hydra neither wanted to be the wedge, or watch the other become it. If one truly lived and learned, should she simply disallow the pain of all that in this lifetime?
“If you do not remember it,” Hydra drawled, “I would waste your time no further with the past. It will likely mean nothing to you,” she imagined, while it meant so much more to her. Hydra was a strong woman, though to hear that... to know that... would be a blow she did not know how to recover from. Tearing hide from bone was one thing—but matters of the heart? A weakness. Terance, her own lingering platonic love for him, a weakness. None of it was visible to the eye, nor did her voice break to reflect the mirrored state of her heart, and she felt glad, then, that he did not know her.
Because even still, he (as those closest to her may) would have known that, had he.
Perhaps in time the memories would come, or perhaps they never would.
Hydra could only go off the here and the now, then. If nothing else, Terance would surely know of Charon from his mother, right? That remained to be seen, but she felt no harm in the both of them gaining knowledge and information of this place, regardless. “Moonspear has become Empyrean,” she informed, gesturing toward the direction of her own home, “and I am here to become acquainted with what surrounds it. Other than our own shared experience with our... arrivals... and then being accosted by me,” she quipped, “have either of you come across anything unusual during your travels?”
The past was the past. While she wished she could simply bury it, it still remained for her—but she would not live in it.
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