Had it been foretold to her a mere six months prior that she would be without her companion, her lover, left here to sift aimlessly through the rubble of his abrupt and unexpected departure, Isolt might have met such speculation with naught more than the wave of a single falsely-delicate hand. Six months ago the young damsel would have never allowed the notion of this newfound solitude to darken the stage of her thoughts, never would she have dreamt that she would be left to take up the mantle of Red on the Water's sole proprietor, to become Elysium's Supreme and bear the weight of all that was expected of her. Isolt had, to her merit, born it well, and yet no less did her shoulders scream for the ache of the insurmountable heft of it. No less did her heart bleed for the loss of her lover, the barbs of his presumed abandonment were savage things, decimating the tenderness of her soul to lay their daggers to every fond memory of him to which she clung so tightly.

And cling though she did to the more jubilant recollections of her time spent in Damon's arms, Isolt could hardly succomb to the wantonly-beckoning finger of what had been but was no longer. Not here, not in the midst of the bustling crowd, their raucous laughter serving to bolster her against the past in some small yet nonetheless peculiarly effective manner. She had sought and found solace in the warmth of their companionship, temporary though it might have been; particularly lovely was the elder gentleman across from whom she sat, lured into conversation with the old-timer by the Irish lilt of his voice and the offhanded familiarity of his lighthearted mannerisms. The azure of her eyes was set alight for the barest moment, his gaiety infectous and his laughter moreso. "Oh aye," he proclaims, his crinkled and creased facade focusing on something beyond her as he waves a frail arm in greeting, causing the young woman to straighten. "Damon!"

The chill that ricochets down the length of her spine is remniscent of the glacial numbness of death's fingers, the turning of her stomach and the fibrous knot growing ever tighter in her throat surely only phantom reactions not yet left to her mortal self... and yet they ail her no less. She rises, it seems, in slow motion, her body relunctant to move with as much fervor as her mind desires. The moment in which Isolt's eyes fall upon him is the moment that she remembers, yet again, what it means to fall apart... what it means to shatter. Wounds that had only recently begun to mend themselves surrender to the sight of him to bleed anew.

Isolt ventures but a step, a single tremulous step, towards the man that had once been her lover before everything that had transpired these last months halts her. His silence, his absence, and his abandonment halt her... the aching of her heart stills the progression of her feet. She knows then that she cannot face him, not here, not in front of her patrons... their wandering eyes surely flickering betwixt their returned hero and his damsel. And so... she moves swiftly into the darkness of the staff's quarters, making short work of the distance to what had once been Damon's office, delicate hands moving swiftly to rake through her mane of copper curls for want of any other useful employ. Quickly does the infant vampire find herself grappling for breath she knows she does not need and cannot acquire, leaning heavily against the heavy oaken desk behind which Damon had once perched himself.

She may have found herself content to linger there for the coming eternity were it not for the shadow cast beyond the threshold of the dimly-lit space. Isolt feels him there, a paradox of relief and anxiety, joy and anger, gurgling within her as she turns to finally face the man she had believed she had known so well. The man that she believed had cherished her in the manner that she had cherished him. But too late had she learned the truth of it all, left in the midst of the settling dust to find herself without him. She battles valiantly to still the quivering of her lip, to bolster herself against every emotion that demanded to be felt, against the pain that demanded to be... but too soon does her weakness make itself known. Too soon do the brims of her eyes redden with the onslaught of crimson tears that threaten just beyond the surface. So intensely crippling is the swell of emotion that crests as some perilous wave within her chest that Isolt ventures to offer but a single, choked word. The only word that had lingered in her mind for these long, long months. "Why?"