The ache is old, as old as Beleth is. As old as her name is. She feels it like an old wound, dull and constant, but ultimately able to be shoved aside and ignored. It's harder to ignore when she's so close, when she can reach out and touch and hear spirits. And then Cole's words pierce it through, the pain more sudden and sharp than it had ever been. Feelings Beleth didn't talk about--allude to, maybe, allowing people to see the result, but never the cause.

Her eyes are tearing up before she even has a chance to try to stop them. Pathetic. She doesn't say anything to Cole for a few moments, working on trying to keep back the tears with her scarf. Embarrassing and pathetic. No wonder her mother didn't want her, nor her father, nor anyone else, for that matter. The self-loathing that bubbled in the back of her mind, constant but always contained, barely contained, threatened to rise up and spill over. Who got this upset over a few sentences?

She focuses on that. It's just a few words, and yet you're nearly crying. Who does that? Who gets so easily worked up? Sad, pathetic people with sad, pathetic lives.

"My mother is the Keeper," Beleth whispered, voice muffled in the scarf. "She has to train the First and Second. I was neither, so I didn't get trained. She has to focus on what's best for the clan. It's not her fault I'm not a mage."