if only we were amongst friends. or sane persons.
" yes, if only, " she echoes, irony made apparent in the crescent of a sneer curling across her features.
between the two, there is a silent entente — i do not trust you, nor am i to be trusted. it's easy to appreciate the simplicity of it. it is exceptionally rare, evernight finds, to find like-minded company in the way that she prefers, though her own conniving nature might be to blame for that ... march has never struggled to find companionship, after all. of course, she could just as easily blame that on the fact that march 7th is march 7th — beautiful and effortless in all that she does, who wouldn't want to stand by her side ? as always, evernight is only a shallow facsimile of her mirrored self's radiant light. she doesn't mind. not at all. march wouldn't be nearly so special if there were two of her running around.
arlecchino is not her friend, nor is she a 'sane person,' and she knows well that the harbinger shares the same sentiment of her. good. this superficial comradery, belied only by their mutual understanding, is acceptable. comfortable. evernight imagines this is the closest sort of connection that can be reserved for her.
an idle thought — does the knave think the same of herself ? undeserving of better ? it hardly matters, but she cannot stop herself wondering ...
likely not. evernight is, first and foremost, alone in this one, simple truth : her existence is a lowly, pitiful one. there is hardly more miserable a life.