...but I didn't think that honesty was one of them.

The words hit their mark. Evren visibly winced, a spasm rippling across her face, but the tiny movement was but a surface-level glimpse of the cold, heavy ache that sat in her chest. Shamed, she could not meet Persephone's eyes as the mare spoke. She stared blindly into the falling rain, her gaze unfocused and her ears twisted back. She thought of the tiny life stirring within her, and wondered if she would have told Persephone about her infidelity had she not fallen pregnant. Perhaps not initially, but over time, it would have eaten her up inside.

Do I not treat your children like my own? I love them.

At this, Evren's eyes swam with fresh tears, and she heaved a shuddering breath in an attempt to rein in the surging tides of fresh emotion. "I know," she replied, her voice small yet defensive. It was true: Persephone was a second mother to Evren's children, and had accepted them just as readily as Evren had accepted hers. Evren knew, logically, that if she had expressed her desire to have another child, Persephone would have supported her unconditionally. Thinking back to her encounter with Solomon, she tried to recall what thoughts had been going through her head, but quickly accepted the futility of that task. That was the problem -- she had not been thinking at all. She had, in fact, wanted to do anything other than think.

Why wouldn’t you tell me?

Persephone's words hung in the chilled air. Moments of silence passed with them each avoiding the other's gaze. An ice-cold droplet of rain pelted the white smear on Evren's nose and trailed the curve of her upper lip. She did not react.

"I knew it would hurt you," she finally said. Her voice was low and quiet, yet brittle as old shale. "And I'm... so tired of hurting you, Sephy. Do you know what it's like to continually fuck up and not know how to stop? I don't know how to be as good as you. I've tried. I can't do it. I can't." She lifted her head to stare at the dripping boughs overhead, and her expression twisted with pain. "Even now, you--" she turned to look at Persephone finally, her words rising in volume, "--By all rights you should be yelling at me, and you don't. Why? Why? I deserve it. Why do you have to be so goddamn perfect all the time?"

Why do you have to be too good for me? is what she really wants to say. It’s what sits in her mouth, unspoken, dark and bitter like poison.