Phoenix Maplewood and make Death proud to take us

Her eyes fixate upon him as he goes through his own revelation through the tattered and worn and eyeless. How he'd come to bear such a look leaves questions, locked away with the other questions she's had for him since their genesis. None of them surface while she stands there, him approaching and matching a similar stance when he wears no scent of others as she'd once remembered. Something lost beyond the expressions he can no longer bear, realization that she is just as easily mortal as he in some parts, where others have life eternal.

"I am," she tells him. There had been a time where she saw great things before her but taken away from her before their blossom had turned sour, regardless of what they've been through since. "I'm glad I can say the same for you," she says with a short huff of breath, the only resemblance—maybe—of a laugh she can give.