A slight snort of breath through his nose and a shake of his head was all of Court’s outward reaction. How can I tell another person what it’s like? To make them understand how it feels? How hard it is to fight it? Adaline is the only one who’s ever come close. Might as well try, she already thinks I’m some kind of brute.
After sitting silently mulling it over, Court spoke, his voice very low, still looking at the table. “I’m immortal, Vi. Or at least as close to it as any person can get. Doctors who’ve examined me haven’t studied my Gift in detail, but they have told me that my physical age has only increased by about a year, maybe two, since it first manifested. I am going to outlive everyone I know and love by decades. I’ve been shot, stabbed, blown up, burned, crushed. Every time I’ve gotten back up again without a mark on me to show for it. I’ve never been sick, never had a hangover.”
He shook his head again, “I’m like a demigod out of some ancient myth or fairy tale.” He looked up, “Do you have any idea how hard it is to not see myself as a god? To see other people as being anything even resembling equal to me?” He turned red with embarrassment and shame, eyes turning back down to the table, “What am I saying?” Of course she knew. How could anyone who knew me at Crèche not know?
“I’m not being dramatic. Being on Ellevra makes it worse. A thousand times worse. It took being a moment or two away from death to shake me out of it and even then I still was so detached I punched Bellamy so hard I broke every bone in my hand because I knew it would heal in moments.”