She can see the creases in his 'brow, the nervous sweat collecting to darken his bay hide. She croons gently, an encouragement for him to settle, and she starts the gentle lullaby tune she used to sing when they'd sleep together at night. Except, he wasn't a child any more, even if he'd always be her child. She was reminded of this as he retreated from her embrace, his absence impossibly cold against her skin, nearly causing a shiver.

He did more than leave her side in that instance. He was making a statement, taking a stance; reminding her of things she'd rather forget. Can't we go back to how it was?
No.

While she was away he had grown.
He had been aging since the moment he hatched, but he'd always retained this child-like vigor, this unfallable curiosity and delight in the world, and he's always been loyal to her even if she'd fucked up (gods how she's good at fucking up). He'd loved her, and she'd loved him. He'd shown her how to love, really, and for that she'd always be indebted to him.

For that, she'd never stop loving him.

She stays on the ground as he stands, however shaky, There's a moment when he seems likely to topple and Ampere flinches, her body simultaneously deciding to rise to help him and choosing to remain, knowing better after all. Still, she can't hide the concern that settles on her features, can't disguise the pain that darkens the vibrancy of her gaze as she watches her child hurt both physically and otherwise. Then of course he asks what she expected, and in response she diverts her gaze, unable to bear witness to the wounds she herself has inflicted on her boy. The bloody ravaging of someone else is hard enough, but she just couldn't stand the marks she made.

She hears the way his voice waivers, can practically smell the tears as they form, but she just closes her eyes, as if she would reopen them and find the world changed. No, find it better.
Maybe she'd find herself better?

"Was it my fault?"

Horror drives like ice into her heart and in an instant her head has whipped back around and she's risen to her feet. Hastily she moved towards him, uncaring if he'd reject her, she'd push through it and hug him until her felt her love; unmindful of his poor balance, she'd catch him if he fell. Her wings slid from her sides to hold him, if he'd let her, while her neck tried to drag overtop his and pull him into her chest. Her own tears had pricked at the edges of her eyes and gently spilled down, her breaths shaky, but her voice surprisingly firm.

"Don't you ever think that," the words came out rushed, and fierce, reminiscent of her anger but lacking the noise. "I love you Zèklè, more than anything!" She was desperate for him to know this, and so she forced the words out, as if it might push them into his mind and his heart that much better.

She pulls back faintly, so that she might look at him, but her wings stay outreached, trying to maintain contact. "I shouldn't have left, I;m sorry," she murmurs, a mournful sigh trailing from her nose. "It was selfish of me..." as I often am, "I-I," she struggled to explain. How could she tell him something she barely understood herself? Would the reason really even alleviate all his pain, because was there really any answer good enough for what she'd done? She shook her head, teeth clenched with self-frustration. She'd live for this mistake all her life, because her children would always bear it, and that scar would change them.

"I didn't know what else to do, so I ran, because I was scared. Once I stopped running I was a long ways away, and then I was scared to come back." Partially for this exact reason, which made it that much harder to face.

"I'm here now though... I'm here."
Begging, love me still, please.