Zèklè

I don't believe she does. Huh. You mull this over, taking in the implications behind the words- but you're quickly distracted from any further pursuit by the rare smile you've managed to coax out of Isopia, a smile that warms your belly and inspires in you a stirring sense of pride. Your own grin widens in response, a lopsided thing full of unabashed delight. If you can get her to smile after a day like today, well, then maybe you're doing something right.

Your friend talks again, and you listen, your own smile fading slightly as you take in her words seriously, adding them to the picture of Isopia that exists in your mind. They don't really change anything, these secrets and pieces of history she's chosen to share. Iso is still your Iso- she's just a slightly more detailed one now, a more complete person, though still one you could never hope to fully understand. Every time she speaks it offers both answers (so that's why you left) and questions (wait... I was born well before the invasion!), but you like it. It's like the ebb and flow of the ocean, a never-ending tide of information and curiosity, and you accept it all with the willingness of a child, the eager interest of a student, the easy affection of a friend.

You (try to) glance sidelong at Isopia as she falls silent again, chewing thoughtfully on your lip. All this talk of mothers, of course, reminds you that Isopia was a mother, even if only for a moment that she cannot remember now. But you remember - you remember her sadness, the emotion in her voice as she confessed her sins, and sometimes you've wondered- if things were different, would the baby have made Isopia happy? Given her something to anchor her to this world and the people in it, when she seems so often to float above it? She speaks of Kahlua with such indifference, and the Earth God with obligation ('The purpose of my birth,' as though she was little more than a planned and implemented tool), that you wonder if she even would know how to be a mother.

But she has been. She just... killed her fetus. And then forgot.

You still can't decide if it was the right choice or not - if you even know. But you do wonder, sometimes, if things had been different... if she would have enjoyed it. If she could love a baby, or if she'd just be her own mother- distant, confused, lacking. You doubt it.

"Have you ever thought about bein' a Ma, Iso?" you ask carefully, trying to keep the inflection, the implication, from your voice.

And in the sea that's painted black,
Creatures lurk below the deck
But you're a queen and I'm a lionheart