A/N: Written some odd years ago and only recently rediscovered on my hard drive.
She's always thought that in difficult times, one's emotions were supposed to fade. That they were supposed to become an empty shell of themselves. Yet her emotions seem to only be heightened right now.
She hears every crack of twigs against her racing feet as they hit the ground; feels Pendragon's clammy hand clasped in hers, tight and sweaty; listens to her heart pounding out its steady rhythm in her ears; notices how the wind slash at her face, cut at her cheeks.
As though, with her mother's death, she has given her daughter this final parting gift of understanding, of feeling what is around her to an intensified degree.
She doesn't want this gift. She doesn't care what else is out there. Her mother is dead, and it is all because of the foolish boy whom she is supposed to work together with – no, not work with, whom she is supposed to protect.
Her mother is dead. What is more real than this? What does it matter how many twigs crack, how sweaty the boy is, how loud her heart is, how cruel the wind is? These things may do what they want, for they do not matter, not anymore.
She feels everything around her, yet in that moment, she still knows nothing of what exists, and does not care to.
A/N: Reviews are love.