Even as the years, decades, centuries passed and Dante threw herself into study and obsessive searching, Envy could not help but look upon her with unsuppressable desperate need; perhaps the primitive core necessity inborn within living creatures to attatch to the mother figure. In spite of his growing power, excessively surprising intellect, he couldn't seem to convince himself to see the truth, that she didn't need him. Even when she shrieked it, spat it, spelled it out in her rare but deadly drunken rages, that he was worthless, a dog, not worthy of being called her son, he could never make himself believe that she truly hated him; for if Mother of all people had rejected him, then he had nobody left.