"You are... you are not..." But that would mean admitting something, anything, and she is in such a habit. Something hurting and raw and smothered down.

Bites it back, sharp and - one of these centuries, she really should have learned to hold her tongue, or to learn to temper her tone. But she hadn't learned it yet, and time didn't seem to do her any favours. Pushes on forward, and frustration with it all means the next walker she finds in the dark dies with more force than she really needs to exert. Furious, bitter, she is too strong and she cleaves it with ease. Splatters it's pieces against her face, her hands, red and thick on her knuckles.

"You have no idea what it is, what they are asking."