The world feels as if it has turned upside down as Sarabi pants. For a moment Natiya stands, stunned, because she is not certain that any of this is real. Life was full of trickery and it wouldn’t be past Blackthorne to pull some cruel prank on her if he was to find her, though she suspected he was more likely to come at her with fangs and fury than coy and games. Another thought crosses her mind. Perhaps her time in isolation has turned her mad or done something to her that she was either hallucinating or seeing the dead. Beltane in Iromar had been rumored to have some sort of powers and Natiya had heard of similar instances. She did not want to see ghosts, she had enough live problems to deal with.

Sarabi’s tail wags in a limp-like manner, flinging droplets every which way as she fairly drags herself closer to Natiya. The silver coated girl is left frozen in disbelief as her mother nears, still in shock. Part of her still wants to flee. She had never been particularly kind to Sarabi but she had never been overtly cruel either. Blackthorne had been the one to hurt her and Natiya had never felt brave enough to stop it. Would Sarabi even want to see Natiya?

The moment that her mother leans forward to touch her, she snaps out of it, flinching slightly before steeling her shaking legs. Allowing Sarabi to bury her nose into her neck, expecting the flash of pain of fangs, thinking herself Elohim: she deserved this. At least this scar would be because she deserved it, not because she let others take their pain out on her.

But Sarabi did not bite. She nuzzled. She whined in pain, mental anguish, and Natiya’s skin ripples as her mother’s cold nose manages to brush her skin between her fur. Sarabi’s head comes beneath her own chin and Natiya gulps for a moment. She is torn between her surprise at Sarabi’s reaction and her desire to jerk back, to protect her throat. She had never been touched, not really, not like this, and Natiya does not know how to respond. When her mother slides down, laying her jaw across Natiya’s paws, she blinks down at her, owlish features open with surprise.

Her face morphs as she speaks, blue-silver eyes watering with pain that mimic’s her mothers. I thought he would kill you, she says, and Natiya thinks she must mean Blackthorne. ”No mother,” she says on a wobbly voice, clearing her throat after a second, slowly lowering her body down to the ground without shifting her paws. Pressing her nose up against her mother’s cheek very gently. ”I’m sorry. I’m sorry I was a bad daughter. I loved you too,” she whispers, tears still spilling over before she scoots forward a bit, unbalancing her mother’s head most likely as she tries get close enough that she can throw her neck over her mother’s wet one and offer her some warmth. ”He hasn’t killed me yet but I think he will,” I say quietly now.