( Morbid sense of curiosity it is. She'd once asked Gale what would have happened if he'd have, well. Lost his hand while stuck in the portal, and he'd been desperate to know if the question was theoretical or not. Sometimes it's best not to wonder about the path less traveled, or the hand not chopped, as it were.

Haelva shifts, her eyes falling closed -- it's easy to find comfort here, in conversation with a man she considers a friend and the natural warmth of the housing, coupled with the lightheadedness. )

It must be terrible. ( She falls silent for a moment before continuing on, once she's put her thoughts together. ) To feel everything so keenly, and then to have it ebb away from you again and again. ( Haelva raises a hand, as if she's about to grasp something before she lets it fall; something ever out of reach, always out of her own touch. He has indulged her, and she finds herself willing to offer what she can in return. ) When I murder, I feel... satisfaction. ( She drags the word out through her teeth, lengthening the vowels as if by speaking it she can somehow make it not true. ) Pride in a job well done. And I do it so well, so perfectly. Not a drop goes to waste under my blade, by my hands.

( And there is something there, the pride that seeps through her voice, the rolling anger at someone just out of reach. She knows this hatred in her heart has a target. But who? And why?

They remain, as ever, ebbing away from her. )