Laruku did not forget. He only pretended to, but oftentimes, it was good enough of an illusion that even he didn't realize. Still, the idea that Rachias thought he would forget about her was a little startling; he didn't know why she would think that, but of course, he had never been particularly good at reading or understanding others. I wouldn't forget about you,
he reassured her in the same voice: quiet, scratchy. It was the opposite, he wanted. The hybrid would never forget about his children, as unwanted as they had been, and as scattered as they had become, but he wished they would forget about him, the same as he wanted everyone else to forget about him. The pack had moved on; he imagined that many of them still figured he was dead. That was what he'd prefer. He wanted Rachias to forget about him; he wanted Iskata to forget; he wanted Ahren to forget. They would find their own peace. And he would find his. Or at least, he would pretend to and eventually convince himself of it.
I'm fine,
he said simply, shrugging a bit. He closed his eyes. I can't see anything,
he told her truthfully, But I'm fine.
Laruku saw a world of white, of fog thicker than the worst Clouded Tears had ever offered. Sometimes, there were grey shapes, but they did not correspond with objects in the real world, and he had come to ignore them -- they were nothing, just images his mind fed to him because it was not used to the absence. With his eyes closed, he could imagine his daughter sitting there with him. He could imagine the sunlight trying to break through the tree to reach his window. He could imagine the kitchen in all its neglect and disrepair. He could imagine that he was sitting in a different house in a different place, and it would feel very much the same, but he tried not to imagine that last part too often. How are you?