They said she was darkness. She knew about the whispers that followed her. She knew about her father. And she knew about her destiny. And she knew that she was not darkness.
Sure, her allies pretended they didn't care. Or that they didn't believe it. But they cared. They cared a lot. And she knew that too. They didn't understand. They would never understand. And that hurt.
And that hurt was the difference. Darkness didn't hurt. It didn't matter that your father abandoned you. It didn't matter that you were going to destroy the world. The blood of innocents—and not so innocents—didn't matter. It was all the same. It was all darkness. Darkness was numb. And she was not.
But she wished she was.