They'd said her hair changed color after the sickness lifted. At the time, she hadn't cared. She was alive, and that was all that mattered. And as her purpose became clear to her, it almost seemed fitting. An agent of destruction, and pale as death itself.
All that was over now, and as the evil influence had vanished, so had the physical changes that had come with it. Her hair had returned to its original shade – deep turquoise, like her father's – and her eyes had done the same.
It shouldn't have mattered so much, but it did. And every time she passed a mirror, she would look away. She'd become so used to her old self that it seemed wrong to be anything else. Malpercio was supposed to wipe this filthy world clean, and she was supposed to make it possible. It had been all she'd wanted for years, and now that it was gone, she was empty.
There was regret, yes, and there was guilt. Her people didn't look at her with the same love as before. They did not hate her, but never again would she be revered as she once was. This was fitting – generous, even – so why did it hurt so much?
Kalas and his companions didn't hate her, either. They'd been nothing but concerned for her well-being. It made her sick. How could they still care about her? She didn't deserve it, after what she'd become. She shouldn't have even been alive. Wouldn't it have been better if death had reclaimed her alongside the monster she'd created? Why had Kalas seen fit to save her?
It hurt to even look at herself. Every glimpse of the girl in the mirror was a reminder of what she'd lost. Her mother and father were gone, and though she'd long since accepted that, she was now burdened with the knowledge that she should have joined them. But she hadn't, and now here she was, a cold and lonely child without a purpose.
Someday, she told herself, it would be different. She would tire of suffering and allow herself to be loved. But it seemed like an empty promise – fragile, like glass, and so far away.