The ghost of a smile tugs at the corners of Rae's lips, but it is not a happy smile. There is sadness there, and compassion.
"We rage, we fight, we fear, we struggle. Anything to keep from giving in. And those that fall, we grieve, for we know one day we'll fall, too."
To know that what you are eating struggled, raged against the death that was waiting for it, and yet succumbed as everything eventually does... it turns her stomach. The wheat of the field does not fight the reaper; it does not fear; it does not grieve. Indeed, it has modified itself over the eons to produce more grain, for those strains are likeliest to continue being planted. Cocoa trees do not fear the harvesting of their beans. Cattle are made healthier by milking. Eggs of chickens that are laid unfertilized will not bear young, yet are nutritious and good.
Sunshine could not eat something that was aware enough to see and want to defy its fate.
(Her doe stands at the edge of the wood, half-in and half-out of the dappled leaf-shadows, on the brink of the wide, golden field, fragrant with summer grasses. She lifts her head, her liquid brown eyes acknowledging her oncoming death-)
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"We rage, we fight, we fear, we struggle. Anything to keep from giving in. And those that fall, we grieve, for we know one day we'll fall, too."
To know that what you are eating struggled, raged against the death that was waiting for it, and yet succumbed as everything eventually does... it turns her stomach. The wheat of the field does not fight the reaper; it does not fear; it does not grieve. Indeed, it has modified itself over the eons to produce more grain, for those strains are likeliest to continue being planted. Cocoa trees do not fear the harvesting of their beans. Cattle are made healthier by milking. Eggs of chickens that are laid unfertilized will not bear young, yet are nutritious and good.
Sunshine could not eat something that was aware enough to see and want to defy its fate.
(Her doe stands at the edge of the wood, half-in and half-out of the dappled leaf-shadows, on the brink of the wide, golden field, fragrant with summer grasses. She lifts her head, her liquid brown eyes acknowledging her oncoming death-)
Not willingly, at least.