Bearclaw Valley the masque of the red death

Avicus looks down, considering her pelt with a troubled frown. it's not the first time it has bothered her. she has longed for the shadowy fur of her mother and brother—even Merrick's burnished colors would suffice. her pelage is too bright; it burns against the green of foliage (and will, unbeknownst to her, be even more conspicuous in the snow). 

and now. . .this. an additional burden to bear. the pelt of weakness, of deceit. of Merrick's mother.

but: 

she is dead, Avicus says flatly, looking back up at her father. her expression is stern, jaw set stubbornly. she knows death, and dead things—she knows that life, once dead, will breathe no longer.

she is not Indra, because Indra is dead. Merrick has told her so, and she has no reason to not believe him.

i am not dead.