That's a depressing thought. It's also oddly compelling. Greta doesn't really expect Amalthea to start weeping out of sympathy, but now that she knows what such a thing would signify, it seems all the more prudent to pull herself together. She doesn't want to be inadvertently responsible for robbing her of her unicorn-ness. God, she'd never forgive herself.
Pulling herself together is easier said than done. Amalthea's kind, almost maternal touch makes her feel small -- not patronized, because she doesn't think a unicorn could, but like nothing she could do would be a shock. And maybe it wouldn't be a shock because it's all incomprehensible to some degree, as opposed to predictable, but she's not sure the difference really matters.
A happy middle. She doesn't even know what that would look like. She does know, somewhere beneath the more distressing revelations, that it's hard to imagine because she's been deliberately not imagining it. All her focus has been on going home, to the point where any stray thoughts about what she might do here, and only here, have been squashed as a matter of course. Even now, knowing what she does, it's hard to just take all those old wishes and scrap them.
It's hard to acknowledge that Amalthea is probably right, even though she knows how stupid it would be not to -- like rejecting a literal lifeline because she doesn't much care for the weave of the rope, and never mind that she's drowning.
"I don't know why you put up with me," she blurts out, the faint exasperation in her tone entirely self-directed. She immediately regrets it -- you'd think she was trying to be pathetic -- and shakes her with a rueful wince before making a more concentrated (and successful) attempt to pull herself together. "But I'm glad you do," she says with a small, sheepish smile, taking Amalthea's hand. "And I'm sure you're right. It's just... still a bit raw, I suppose."
no subject
Pulling herself together is easier said than done. Amalthea's kind, almost maternal touch makes her feel small -- not patronized, because she doesn't think a unicorn could, but like nothing she could do would be a shock. And maybe it wouldn't be a shock because it's all incomprehensible to some degree, as opposed to predictable, but she's not sure the difference really matters.
A happy middle. She doesn't even know what that would look like. She does know, somewhere beneath the more distressing revelations, that it's hard to imagine because she's been deliberately not imagining it. All her focus has been on going home, to the point where any stray thoughts about what she might do here, and only here, have been squashed as a matter of course. Even now, knowing what she does, it's hard to just take all those old wishes and scrap them.
It's hard to acknowledge that Amalthea is probably right, even though she knows how stupid it would be not to -- like rejecting a literal lifeline because she doesn't much care for the weave of the rope, and never mind that she's drowning.
"I don't know why you put up with me," she blurts out, the faint exasperation in her tone entirely self-directed. She immediately regrets it -- you'd think she was trying to be pathetic -- and shakes her with a rueful wince before making a more concentrated (and successful) attempt to pull herself together. "But I'm glad you do," she says with a small, sheepish smile, taking Amalthea's hand. "And I'm sure you're right. It's just... still a bit raw, I suppose."