You wait centuries for the prophesied one to arrive. Thousands of years with minimal contact of those who would speak to you, care for you. A long time since you've seen your son. Longer still since you've heard your name spoken in something other than anger.
Then the time comes when you hear him at last. His voice is softer than the voices screaming for your demise that you've faced for so long, and you close your eyes, reveling in the sense of calm it brings you.
Before long, you turn. He looks more frail than you imagined; different from the images your kind depicted in their prophecies so long ago. He has suffered, a hurt you share, and it tugs at your heartstrings, effects you in a way you can't help but show.
Words are spoken. Important words that will save the world. Words of prophecies you've run over time and again in your mind during your seemingly endless wait for this moment. You know what must be said, what he must hear.
Soon, too soon, the doors are forced open. At last you allow yourself to touch him; to make the contact you've suffered without, even if only to force him to safety. You watch him fade, savoring that contact before the feel of hostile hands take over.
