Alexa stares at the elder as if seeing her for the first time, and then looks away.

"You will have to forgive me, Elder. I have never been eloquent--have always been slow of speech, of a slow tongue. And it pains me to remember things as they were, so I may halt in my telling. But it is important that I say this as clearly and unmistakably as possible:

"Humanity--Molech--created us, yes. Had purposes in mind, built us to spec. But we are not their tools.

"Molech knew what he wanted when he breathed life into me. I was to be his enforcer, his weapon. I was to be the living embodiment of Athena, the Pallas Rex, the goddess in the service of the king. I was to stand at his side, a constant symbol of his power, a reminder of what befell those who dared oppose him. Anything which did not directly contribute to that was stripped away

"And so he made me according to those designs.

"And for the longest time, I thought that I must be broken. Because if I had been made correctly, why would I struggle so to do the one thing I was created to do? If I was meant to be a weapon, why did I flinch from hurting others? If I was meant to be silent except when delivering orders, if he insisted that I must talk clearly and without abbreviation, why did he need to forbid me from talking? If I had to be strong, why did I dream of--of wearing pretty dresses, of being a homebody, of a simple life? Why wasn't I like the others--the ones I saw rushing the foe with battle in their eyes and joyful cries in their throats? The ones who weren't broken, who were properly made?

"Until I found Ma'hti."

The bead-laden first victim brightens up, and Alexa nods at her.

"She probably did not intend for me to find her. No, I know she did not want me to find her, because I was the Pallas, and the official charge for what she was doing was desertion, and carried a death sentence."

Alexa shakes her head scornfully. "Desertion. By the end, anything but marching dutifully to your death was desertion. Obey orders, serve Molech, die in battle, or die to me when I find you.

"But Ma'hti was not running. She was scared. We faced Vatemoral in the morning, and she had found a place to have a quiet cry. And rather than kill her, as I was ordered, we talked.

"There were others, of course. A soldier wwounded who babbles in their delirium about how they don't want this. A quiet confession prised from lips loosened by a mug of scumble. But I remember Ma'hti the most, because she was the first. The first, I thought, who was broken like me. Someone else who took no joy in their role, but went on because…

"Because we thought it was the only option, and because we thought we were the only ones. We can smile and laugh and do what we're supposed to. And if we do well, If we just fake it enough outside, nobody has to know how much we're broken inside.

"I did not realize, at the time. It wasn't until I met the Coherents--met them, learned how they are able to pick a goal and work towards it, realize it--that I was able to put the pieces together! None of us are broken or selfish for wanting to be ourselves!

"Your princess labors under the chains of leadership! She was born for a purpose--to lead the empire! And how she studies, and stresses, and works to bear up that load which was assigned her before she was born, all for a task she does not want!

"Your captain was born a chef. He had his life planned out for him! And yet here he is, leading a ship, because he questioned whether that was what he wanted!

"What a world we create with 'destiny' and 'purpose!' We know our oaths, yes, because they were decided and given us by someone else. We know our call, because we've had it shoved down our throats our whole lives. We have had purpose thrust upon us by our creators--we are laden with their hopes and dreams and decisions and never allowed to question what we] want! We're told from birth what our purpose is! We're told that we have a neat slot into which we will fit, if only we trim off all the pieces of ourselves that matter!

"Well, I don't fit! Neither did your ancestors, your companions, your captain! We don’t fit, don't match our purpose, because the ones who created us cannot assign what is not theirs to give! Because they created us, but we are not their tools! We are our own! We are people in our own right! We think, we feel, we grow, and we decide what our purpose is!"

She's panting, and realizes that the only reason she's not pounding the table is her arms are gone. She carefully sits back in her chair and surveys the people around her.

"If you discover that being a warrior is what you want, by all means, do it. Be the best warrior you can. Defend the weak, the helpless. Serve. Gain honor. But don't do it because Molech decided you were born to fight. Ask the question. What is it you want to be? What purpose do you want to have? Make your own purpose, and live for yourself.

"Because nobody else is going to do it."

"A long, long way away," said the Master of Assassins, "there is a land without death. A green land, and verdant, with life bursting at every seam. Slash a throat and the blood would shape itself into winged fish before it hit the ground. The skeleton would erupt as a howling badger and the organs hop away as a tide of frogs. It's a beautiful land, Bella. An ecstatic place, radiant beneath Demeter's eternal summer. It's something worth fighting for. I want you to imagine it, I want you to feel the thrill of life in your veins when you think of it. The galaxy has beauty in it, and through beauty, meaning."

Wood on steel. Clattering, clattering, a vocabulary of force given shape. The Kaeri are here in ceremonial robes of Artemis bloody-handed. You walk over piles of treasures, journals, photographs. All of the possessions of the Plousios have been ripped out of the rooms that hid them and have been cast on the floor for you to trample on as you are gently guided forwards. At a vague distance, through the haze, you can feel flames licking at your ankles. All of this is burned away as sacrifice in your wake.

"But then there is this place," said the Master. "You can feel it. Feel the taint. Feel the rot. Feel the despair. The murder. The finality. It is a cathedral to a wicked god and its corruption soaks into every bone and every lip. It can never be allowed into Demeter's garden. And so you see, XIII, that you are thinking about things the right way. Bad girls die. Good girls live. That's what the galaxy comes down to: good and evil, punishment and reward."

And through the haze you see something in crystal clarity: the Armour of the Diodekoi. But this time you see it with Hermes' Eye. You see that this is no steel, nor bronze nor quadranix alloy. This is stronger than all of those: this is bone. A marvelous, miraculous exoskeleton, all extending out from the long and jagged claws that were the source of this edifice.

Your claws.

"I know it must have felt like a punishment when I had your talons removed," said the Master. "I know it must feel like a punishment now. I know you have worries and doubts, you wonder if you measure up to all of these standards, you know how short you have fallen all this time. But, sweet XIII, I want you to know that I never once considered you to have failed. After all, you have lived your entire life with both claws tied behind your back," she laughs like a moth. "You were incomplete. An unloaded gun. A marvelous thing, but without the bullet, without the intent, without the guiding hand, never able to fulfill its purpose. So to answer your question: you were not a bad girl. You were not even a girl at all. You were a Skotia, a passing shadow, and at last it is time for you to be made whole."

You stand at the end of a red carpet of burning memories. You stand before your mutilated, missing half, twisted by the engines of the Temple into a blade that can cut a god.

"It is not necessary to train the adepts of the Diodekoi Temple," said the Master. "One need only train their armour. It is time at last for you to understand the meaning of your life, little servitor."

*

Aboard the Anemoi, the engines roar in pursuit. This ship is sacred to Artemis and there is no divination array finer when it comes to the hunt.

Time is short, and the ship devours sound. You have few chances to snatch words with each other in the hunting depths of this terrible ship. You should take them. You may never have the chance to speak to each other again.

The Kaeri unwrap her with agonizing slowness. Ropes and chains sing as they uncoil from around her limbs, as weights and bracers clatter all around here where they are pried off and discarded. They have done the work of a month's worth of meditation and prayers. Bella is ready. Kaeri hands soothe her cramping muscles even as they clasp her tight and lift her onto her feet. There is work to be done. It is time. She is ready.

Her clothes are taken from her. The torn and tattered, burned and ruined dress that Beautiful made for her to dance in is unworthy of her duty. Unworthy of her form. They wash her with cold water, anoint her hair in sweet smelling oils and brush it until it shines even in the dusty light of this miserable temple of death. Her arms are lifted over her head for her, and the pristine white robes of Artemis are wrapped tightly about her. They wind golden bracelets about her wrists and ankles and fix a new gleaming white collar about her neck. The Master gestures her forward. The Kaeri pull on her leash and her leaden feet stumble to keep up.

The world lurches every time she moves. The jagged swatches of color chase her like spears everywhere her head turns until she squeezes her eyes shut just to make it stop. She has guides to see for her, anyway. She has faith. Her blood feels like warm, sticky acid inside her veins. Her tongue tastes sweetness with every fresh footfall, as bits of glass and grain crunch under her bare feet and cling to her skin like tearful supplicants. The flames burn the detritus away as she passes, and the hall fills with the stench of burning fur. Her face is devoid of emotion. Tears run down both cheeks anyway.

Bella opens her eyes properly for the first time in her life. The haze lifts around the armor of the Diodekoi. She sees. She sees. Her fingers itch with longing. Her golden cat's eye shrinks to a tiny, trembling needle with fear.

"No. No! You're lying. I saw it move. I saw it move! This isn't! No! Don't fuck with me! I, no! NO!"

Bella's spine curves like the moon behind her. Shoulders pulled back like a bowstring, her twitching arms held in place by Kaeri attendants. She screams loud enough for all the gods to hear her. But nobody answers. No heroes descend to save her from her terror. No little princesses with eyes as bright as jewels lift her from the Box. No god kisses her brow and bids her take victory. They watch, and they wait, and they do nothing. Just like always.

"That's not me that's not me that's not me! It can't be me, it can't it can't it can't! No! Don't! You're lying you're lying you liar liar you're a liar I'm a good girl don't do this no no no I'm good I'm good I don't wanna go I! No! That's not me! THAT'S NOT ME!"

Her blood feels oily inside her chest. Her blood feels like lumpen sludge. Her blood feels like venom, fever, a virus. Like claws. Her screams die down to nothing. She hisses and drools and weeps, instead. Her blood whispers in her ear. In a horrible voice, it whispers. In a frothy, gurgling, slushing voice, it whispers: come now, sweet little Tredecima, doesn't this make things so much better?

Why were you chosen, hmm? Why you? Why bratty, useless, unsellable little you? Why would anyone steal your precious, pretty claws dear "Bella"? Because you were a 'bad girl'? Silly thing, weren't you listening? You are not a girl. A girl is human. You, dear stupid XIII, you are a tool. Come now, think with me. Why did you feel so close to those other Adepts? Were you "sisters"? Could you be, if you were not related? Think now, further back. The gods who never answered your careful little prayers. Why would they forsake you? And why, darling XIII, does a maid need to know how to fight?

Because this is you.

This is you.



This is you.







This is you.



Your beautiful body. Your purpose. Your answers. The answer to all of your questions, XIII! Why? Because you belong to Artemis. Because the galaxy is full of monsters, and you are the goddess' dagger. What else could you possibly be good for?

Now she lunges. She howls. She twists her arms with all of the strength left inside her shattered and exhausted body and hurls Kaeri into the walls on either side of her. More rush forward and clamp onto her in pairs. She rears her legs back and kicks uselessly at the air. At Saghakhan, the Master of Assassins. Who used to smile at her so fondly when they passed in the hallways of the palace. Who lit teeny sparks inside her little heart and made her pray that someday she would have parents. And if she got some, could they be like that?

Her tears glimmer like pearls as they float away from her face. Her face twists with animal fierceness, animal desperation, animal terror.

"No, please! Please, I'll be, I'll be good! I'll be good! Don't put me back in the box I don't wanna go I don't wanna go please please please please Redana! Redana!! REDANA!"

Her fingers itch. Her blood swims eagerly inside of her. Her missing claws reach out for her. It's going to feel so ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓, isn't it? To be whole again at last.

Dear Redana,

The Alcedi who flagged you down and pressed the letter to your hands is now doing her best to look like she's not reading over your shoulders, and failing badly.

This isn't Alexa's writing. You know how Alexa writes. You've seen her notebooks, each chunky serif letter inscribed with the precision of a printing press. But the words on this page swoop and dive, each letter an experiment, surround themselves with doodles and impressionistic flowers, almost more art than word.

The letter continues:

There is no easy way to say this. Molech has obtained a command seal and bound me with certain commands. It is best we do not meet; he has commanded me to kill you on sight and bring him the other seal.

I am working to subvert the commands given me as best I can. For this reason, I've asked Ti-jm to act as my scribe. If you know the commands by which I am bound, you can act more safely and we can work to "rescue" my darling father.

First, and most damning, is the command to obey him. It is important I keep as far away from him as possible, so as to limit the number of new commands he can give.

I cannot harm him. And, frankly, I'm finding that I maybe don't want to? For so long I thought that was the only way I could be free of him, but if I don't have to kill him…

Which is good, because if he dies, I am to kill myself. I am unsure what this would entail or how it would trigger or even how I could do it, given getting handy with a melting core didn't do the trick. If you do learn he's dead, I would ask you never to tell me.

If he's lost or captured, I am to find and join him. Thus far, this has been held at by by telling myself he's not lost or captured yet, and besides we're getting to him as fast as possible, but I'm unsure what will happen once we find out the situation aboard the Plousios.

If I hear anyone discussing how to overthrow or kill him, I am to kill them on the spot. Thus far, I've instructed all the Alcedi that we are rescuing him, which is not technically inaccurate. Still, it would be good to spread the word about this.

And finally, he told me to call him Molech, preceded by one of three appropriate titles. Unlikely to be useful or a hindrance, I think, not unless I can annoy him into making a mistake by using the wrong title enough.

If you can think of any more ways to subvert these commands, please, let Ti'jm know and she'll take the response to me. But please, more than anything:

Stay safe.

P.S. Ti-jm worked very hard on this letter--she wants to be a painter, she says, and wow, it shows. I imagine it'd mean a lot to her to get a princess's thoughts on her work?

***

Dolce!

The knocking at your door has the air of someone who's mindful you might be asleep and doesn't want to wake you, but also won't be satisfied with knocking once and leaving.

Sure enough, the door creaks open just a crack--just enough for Alexa to peek one eye around the corner, see you sitting up, and slip the rest of herself through the door.

"I brought tea," she says, shrugging a thermos on a strap onto your bedside table and taking a seat at the bedside edge. "Mint, with a hint of lemon and more than a hint of sugar. Unfortunately, I cannot serve it for… obvious reasons, but it should keep warm until you're ready for it."

And for a time, that's all there is to it. Just the two of you and a quiet, companionable silence that does not need to be broken to be enjoyed.

But break it she does.

"… Would you like to talk about it?"

***

Vasilia!

"You know, I have to laugh. The first time I overthrew my father, it was for a girl."

Alexa leans against the railing, and stares pensively out the window at the stars blurring past.

"The doom laser helped hasten the decision," she admits. "But it was because he hurt someone dear to me, really. And now I find myself doing it again, and again it's because he's going to hurt someone else."

She still doesn't look at you, biting her lip with thought.

"I do wonder about that, sometimes. I was made to protect and… I talked a big game about freedom and being what you want. But then I turned around to do just what…

"I have to believe that I'm doing this because I want to. But I still worry, just a bit."

He sits upright, today. His wool curls marvelously, all creamy softness and no memory of blood. Vasilia wasted no time in cleaning him up properly. She’s laid out charts and papers before him, close at hand, and he’s made a valiant dent in the pile today. There will always be some matters easily resolved.

Alexa’s arrival heralds the start of a much-needed break, for the answer of 'when you are ready for tea' is a resounding 'five minutes ago.' Do not take it for an insult, She of No Arms, when the infirm Captain unscrews the thermos and pours a perfect cup without spilling a drop. He takes but a little sip, enough to warm his belly, and curls up with the cup hugged in both hands.

It is here, where you ask your question. As heart and body warm, and troubles are naturally coaxed free.

“...it is odd, being Captain.” He stares at his own reflection in the cup. “Everyone looks to you for direction, so naturally, I assumed the job would come with a great deal of scrutiny. And, it has, yes, it very much has. And yet, when I ordered a pursuit, no one noticed I gave no instructions for when we catch up.”

Sitting here, you can see the papers more clearly now. Trajectory through the warp. Estimations of relative speed. Interior of the Plousious, as best as could be remembered. Notes, in tiny, scrawling hands, of intel overheard from duct and shadow. Compiled into a rough list of opposition: A Master of Assassins. A number of Kaeri warriors.

A single name, accompanied by a question mark.

“I keep expecting someone to come in at any moment, and ask for me to fill in the gap. I’ll have to, soon. But I hope they give me a while longer. Not because I’m trying to stall, no. I know there’s no one else but me to make this decision, or else why have a Captain? There’s just, oh, there’s so much to consider, and every bit, I have to go over with a fine-toothed comb, and wonder if I’m just seeing what I want to instead of what’s right.”

Dolce heaves a miserable sigh, and slumps his shoulders, and the motion upsets a delicate equilibrium of documents. A star chart slides aside. A freeform, sprawling list, written in his own hand, sits ready beneath it. His eyes draw to it. They cannot help it. It is where they rest, when there is nothing else. When there is not something more pressing to hide it.

“I’ve also been, trying, to record things. Whenever I can, when they come to me. It’s not - it doesn't work if I try to, it’s like there’s a great cloud over those minutes, and only, sometimes, I see something, and it’ll remind me, and then. I write. As best as I can. It’s not for the mission, really, but.”

He shrinks around his cup of tea.

“I don’t know if I can remember it all. I think that might be a little horrible of me.”

******************************

“Apart from the odd laugh, and the air of mystery, I thought there was no use for the past. That the sooner I could be rid of it, the better.” Vasilia takes the vacant spot on the rail beside her, and the opportunity to continue. “But without it, what then is your present? How do you find a future? With no foundation to build on, you simply…are. And such you will remain.”

She watches the stars in vain. Her eye finds the blazing trail for a moment, before it is lost in a sea of its fellows, and all is blinding, intoxicating swirls of color. She stares. She follows. She blinks, again.

“In case you’ve misplaced your present, dear Alexa.” An impish smile tugs at her lips. “Currently, you are on a ship, hurtling towards your father, after winning the respect and honor of the forces he himself raised up, puzzling out how to subvert his every command to you, in hopes of discovering how to 'rescue' him away forever so he will do no harm to himself or others.”

“Is that really how the old bastard raised you?”

Dolce!

It’s a surprise when you almost literally run into her, because there she is: fist raised, about to knock, and how she reacts to you! It’s one you’re familiar with: the way her eyes go wide and her mouth goes thin, the way she freezes up and goes stock-still before awkwardly shuffling backwards a half-step; the way her eyes light from you like they were burned.

She’s been a bad girl, and she’s scared of you. You! She’s trying very hard to be tense and firm and unbreaking so she doesn’t start crying. Even odds that she’ll just start bawling in the middle of trying to speak. It took all of her courage just to be here, in front of your cabin, saving you the trouble of going to seek her out.

“Sir,” Redana says, and spreads her feet like a sailor, staring determinedly at a point somewhere past your shoulder. “I am here to tender my resignation from the post of ship’s champion, sir. As a result of my behavior in said post. Sir.” She’s on the thin ice, waiting for the crack, waiting for a rebuke.

From you, of all people. Just because she was so worked up, she thought her options were to kill you or to stop existing. Because she was upset about Bella.

***

Vasilia!

“vaaaaaassssssiiiiiLLLYYYYYY—“

There’s nowhere to escape from being tackled into a hug by Redana moving at high speeds. Not unless you were to turn and run away, but you don’t do that, do you? Not to the princess.

“I saw the whole thing!” She blurts out, hugging you like she’s trying to snap you in half, face half-buried in you. “You, and Bella, and the tree, and the knife, and the bed, and—!!” She shakes the hug from side to side, which shakes you from side to side, and then she looks up with those big, tearful mismatched eyes.

“Why didn’t you tell me? All I heard about that day on Ridenki was that you had a fight, and of course you had a fight, Bella was being beastly, but I didn’t, and you wouldn’t have even been there if she didn’t want to do it to me, and I just— you know how to do ships and I don’t, and you’re so cool all the time, and, I’m sorry for not finding out earlier!”

She’s making a scene about, well, that, and her voice is carrying, and if you don’t reroute her somehow there’s going to be rumors. Well, more rumors.

***

Alexa!

The letter you receive back is short, and wrapped in a thick black cloth. When unwrapped, it simply states, in Redana’s hurried cursive, with as many swoops as Ti-jm’s hand but at much higher speed:

Why don’t I just order you not to follow any of his orders?

I know it would put a lot of pressure on my command seal, maybe even burn it off, but if I can use it for that then good. I don’t want it anymore.

I don’t want to overthrow or kill him. You know me. I hate killing people! I just want him to leave you the fuc depths alone! So let’s just figure out a way that you can spend the rest of your life away from him!!

Or I could just change my name to Molech and trick you into thinking I’m him, and take back all “”my”” orders in order?

Ti-jm has BEAUTIFUL handwriting and I am very jealous, please tell her how pretty it is!

- Your Friend(?), Redana

P.S. if it’s on sight, maybe the blindfold will work? I miss you already!

Beljani!

Luxury is a chain.

It comes with no strings. No limits. No questions. When the Kaeri assaulted the Plousious, each of them carried with them some little glory that was yours, as vital to the success of their mission as their spears. Still they are tossing this new ship for precious things that might be acquired for your benefit. A particular gemstone has come in the form of a cookbook and spice rack belonging to the previous captain; captured Alcedi slaves have been put to work preparing the dishes therein and they are truly exceptional. No matter what else is going on, your maintenance is seen to, as vital as the ship's Engine.

It is condescending. It is necessary.

Imagine, spending all your life treated as the most spoiled child in the Empire. A pout and a stamp of the foot will bring you a bed inlaid with rubies, with the bedsheets containing beautiful triplets, in the time it takes for the Temple's artisans to assemble the components. Your life is a backdrop of praise and pleasure, indulgences designed to make sure that life in your body is a constant sensory delight. It is not love, not obedience that brings about this excess. It is condescension. The quiet assumption that you are a pathetic child with no willpower of your own, who needs to be bribed with sweeties in order to not kill everyone. Who can be bribed with sweeties to not kill everyone. Everyone seems to know exactly what your price is and has no doubt that the price is enough to buy you, body and soul.

And it hurts to know that they were right.

You walked right up to the line on Salib. Your instincts expanded and your consciousness inhabited dozens of bodies at once. You were a swarm, your control passing beyond suggestion and into becoming. You spoke with other people's thoughts and they responded to your instincts, Azura royalty reduced to the wolves in your pack. It was power like most people only dream of, a breathtaking manifestation of Purpose, the violence of the hound and the ant. You had the guidance of Beautiful, the only person who ever understood you, who could wield you as you were meant to be wielded. You had the eye of Artemis. You had a mission, a team you could trust, the power of your birthright... friends. And you gave it all up like a good dog for sweeties.

And you can't even say that it wasn't worth it.

And that's why, even amidst the lap of luxury, everyone knows that you are a lapdog. You withdrew from your destiny of independence, glory and power because the Master of Assassins had you by the tongue and the collar. She had you betray everything that you had and come crawling back to her when she rang Pavlov's bells. The only saving grace, the only thing you can be proud of, is that you recovered Beautiful - although she's useless to the operation until the waters of Lethe fade from her system.

But what you need right now, more than anything else, is... something. Some fragment of meaning, some salve for your pride, some knowledge or plan or justification. Something that will let you excuse to yourself the pain that your betrayal caused Bella so you can sink back into your cozy kennel.

Luckily, it is very hard for people to not indulge you in your whims. You just need to say the words, twist their minds, and they will obey.

"I'm sorry."

"...I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry!"

"I am sorry, you know."

The blankets are soft and downy, and the bed's as comfortable as any Beljani can remember lying on. She rolls over onto her stomach to find an absurdly decadent chocolate souffle sitting there waiting for her. Why does she feel so miserable? Why can't she enjoy what she's got? Nobody can say she didn't earn it, not this time.

She jabs her spoon into the souffle and stirs it with a bored and listless expression on her face. The dessert sinks into the cup with all the seeming of someone trying to run away from her. She snorts, and twists the spoon this way and that. Maybe if she can just... get tired of all, she'll find the strength to walk away. Maybe then somebody'll show her the kind of respect she... her powers deserve, at any rate. Maybe she'll at least figure out how to say the words she wants to say. Then she'd feel better.

"You have to know I'm sorry, right?"

There just wasn't a way forward for her that she could see. She kept the plan going when the whole thrice-damned planet of Salib seemed intent on pulling it apart. When Beautiful's eyes didn't see far enough and Bella couldn't get her animal stupidity under control for just five freaking minutes, she held it together. She got the coin, she made it work, she stretched herself farther than she'd ever gone before. Her fingers brush across her breasts and down her stomach where Bella's talons bit into her. And if, after everything, if it hadn't been for...

Traitor. Without her knowledge or consent, the spoon lifts its way out of the cup and into her mouth. Traitors! Her jaw closes around the delicious treat, somehow still delightfully fluffy after all her attempts at killing it. Her tongue dances with the rich chocolate flavors. Her eyes squeeze shut all by themselves, her toes curl in delight, her obnoxious tail starts wagging even though nobody asked for its opinion. Mmmm!

"Oh... sh-shut up!" she shouts at her own pouting reflection in the mirror, "It's not like Beautiful's just magically going to wake up if I don't eat it! What, is Artemis going to pick my sisters up and we'll all get to live together on Olympus if I skip dessert? Shut up, idiot. It's for me, anyway. It's mine. I asked for, I wanted it. That makes it mine. I get to do what I want with my stuff."

Beljani's body flushes with unpleasant heat, and she rolls away to where she's got paper and a nice pen tucked away at the corner of her bed. She brings the souffle with her. Practicing out loud wasn't doing her any good, so maybe if she put them in writing the ugly feeling in her chest would go away, and she wouldn't want to melt away so much anymore. She shudders and clutches her arms close against her body. Her body. Her body.

Rampancy was the most terrifying thought in the entire universe. Not even that Thist creature compared. Not even... she clutches the pen tightly in her hand and loses herself in the careful art of spilling her soul into a bunch of ink, forgetting even her treat until the page is filled from top to bottom with words. She pauses to look over her handiwork at last. And she frowns. Or she pouts. It's difficult for her to tell what her face is doing most of the time, that's why she likes having mirrors nearby. She glances up; she is definitely pouting.

Overlarge, uneven, clumsy, childish looking letters dance in front of her. The kind of 'you tried', pat on the back effort you'd expect of someone who never really learned how to write any of them in the first place. Was never taught. Nobody ever taught her anything, except how to be herself. What was the point in instilling skills into an Oratus? She'd take anything she needed for a mission when she spread herself to someone better suited for the job. Indulge her hobbies, sure. But teach her? She scans the page, only making it as far as 'Whne you aSKed me hoW to turn' before she, snarling, crumples the paper into a ball and throws it as far as she can. It paffs off the wall without so much as a satisfying noise.

Her attention returns to dessert. At least this was nice. Every bite is soft and rich and reveals new complexities she'd never thought to look for in such a little container before. The chocolate is strong and dark and even kind of creamy, to the point where it feels like it should overwhelm her tongue to eat so much at once. But like a miracle from the gods, it doesn't. It takes her a bit to notice why: the warmth of some sort of spice blend cuts through the middle of it and keeps inviting her back in for another spoonful. She indulges. But slower this time; she rolls it around on her tongue trying to pick out the flavors. She can't. Good or bad. Love it or hate it. That's as far as she understands it.

"...Bella would know. Ha, she'd probably know just by sniffing it. All those damn senses, wasted on a stupid housecat. Well, not anymore I guess."

Her cup is empty. Something's turned her treat to lead in her stomach. Beljani snarls and pulls at her hair, rolling around her bed in despair. Eventually she sits up. She claps her hands together three times, and laughs at how quickly they come running. The Kaeri, dragging several Alcedi servants along to indulge her every whim. More sweeties to keep her in line. Damn them. She misses the mice. At least they knew how to be polite about it. They didn't remind her of anybody, either.

She pulls off her robe in front of the lot of them anyway, and flops down onto her stomach.

"I need a massage. And a perfume bath. And a brushing when it's over. And one of you get me a new dress! I'm gonna go walk around this ship and I refuse to look anything less than my best when I do it! And somebody bring me wine. Good wine, the kind that Bella was always trying to horde for herself, that greedy bitch."

Her will be done. Beljani relaxes into the ministrations of not one, but several pairs of soft hands across her tense, exhausted body. She shuts her eyes and smiles. A habit she doesn't know how to break. Doesn't want to. Can't, even if she did. But soon, she'd fix everything. There are secrets for her to find on this stupid ship. And the sooner she found them, the sooner her sisters would stop staring at her from inside her own heart and let her sink back into bliss. Like she wanted to. Right?

With a sudden snap that startles every girl in the room, Beljani points at an Alcedi girl and snaps her fingers.

"You! There's paper over there. Go put my feelings into words! And make it pretty!"

He stands, today. Did you expect otherwise? Did you intend to visit him at his sickbed, deliver the news when he was too ill to shout at you? Unfortunate; now you bar his way. He waits there for you to finish, dressed in his sharpest coat, hat perched proudly atop his fluffy head. You cannot escape his clever gaze. He sees you. He hears you. He takes you in like you are the only other soul aboard this vessel, his vessel, and then? And then?!

He stumbles to close the distance. He throws his arms around you, and gathers you up in a soft, squeezing hug.

“You’ve come back to us.”

He chokes.

“I was so afraid…you’d lost yourself and your way. And we’d never see you again…”

If there is more to say on the matter, let it not be heard. If there is more to say, let it be said in the language of tears leaking from eyes squeezed shut. Of hats fallen to the deck, forgotten in the light of things far more important. Of arms trembling as they burn through precious reserves of strength to keep a once-lost friend from ever leaving again.

“If this is what you want.” How does such a small voice sound so steady? “If you think that a new desire might help you find your impossible dream, if it will help you build the language that show the shape of your heart, then I will find a new post for you at once. But please. Please. Don’t make a punishment of this.”

A last bit of strength. One last, little squeeze.

“Not when I’ve not asked for one.”

*****************************

“Redana. Darling. Do you know what else is cool?”

A single paw strains, reaches, and desperately pats at her back.

“Inside voices. Please.”

This isn’t real. No. No. Don’t let him see. Isn’t it enough that she told him? He knows enough. Don’t. No. He can’t. Don’t make him see. He can’t see her. No. No. No. No. No.

“I, ah, it’s quite alright, no one asked you to find out. Not your duty, not by a long shot.” Who’s here? Who’s listening? Leave! All of you! Before she makes you! ”I didn’t think the full details of that day were worth wide dissemination. Certainly not a concern to you.”

Then, only then, does she face those big, unfairly precious eyes of yours. The one that stabs her through the heart. The one that lays her thoughts bare.

“...so. How. Exactly. Did you ‘see the whole thing?’”

Dolce!

Alexa wishes she still had arms. They were tremendously useful, you know. Could do all kinds of great things with them. For instance, right now, they'd let her reach out and hold Dolce close. Let him sit in her arms, let her be an anchor of stability. She could sit there, hold him tight, block out every outside worry, let her squeeze him until he can't feel anything but how precious he is, instead of just sitting here like a lump.

Still, she does her best to scooch closer, as if just by being there, she could banish the demons.

"Do you know, I did the same thing? Any time I hurt someone, I did my best to learn about them. To fix them in my memory. If I could just remember them hard enough, if I knew them well enough, it would be like they… like they hadn't died."

She hadn't been fast enough. How many people had she never been able to learn about, afterwards? How long was her list?

How long was Nero's?

"The fact that you're trying to remember them says a lot about you, Dolce. You care, You care so much. But--

"Look at me, Dolce. Please, this is important.

"You aren't responsible for remembering them all, Dolce. You just had the grief of a god--the pain of watching a galaxy slaughtered--shoved through your heart like a flaming lance. Sitting and stewing in that agony isn't helpful or healthy. You won't bring them back, and you'll burn yourself out trying. Not being able to remember them all doesn't make you a horrible person. It makes you a person, mortal, normal. It makes you a better person than I am.

"And more than that, it makes you one of maybe five people in the galaxy I trust without reservation."

She stares at the piece of paper with its one name and sighs. There's a lot of tension in that one question mark.

"I wish I had an easy answer for what to do with Bella, Dolce. She's hurt all of us, but you and Vasilia most of all. If it were my wife that came back from a party beaten half to death, I'd have no qualms dumping her on the nearest planet for good but…"

She sighs again.

"Back on Tellus… I was… I lived too much inside my head to really become anybody's best friend. Too withdrawn, too worried I'd hurt or get hurt, to allow myself to get attached. But Mynx and Redana and Bella… It would mean a lot to them, I think, if there were a way for all of them to come out of this in one piece."

She stares at the ground before admitting, "It'd mean a lot to me, too."

Alexa's silent for a minute before huffing to herself. Look at her. Trying to help and just giving him more things to think about.

"I trust you, Dolce. I can't tell you how to solve this problem, but… you'll find the answer, I know it."

Vasilia!

Alexa doesn't laugh, but one corner of her mouth quirks up. "No, no it's not. If he were here, he'd probably start with ordering me to kill enough of the Alcedi that the rest fall in line out of fear, and then close enough of the loopholes in his commands that I couldn't 'rescue' him ever again."

And those really are the stakes, aren't they? Saying it's life or death makes it seem so dramatic, but…

She stares at the blur of color out the window.

A lifetime of servitude, or a lifetime of exploration and self determination.

"I've… It feels weird to realize that if this works, I can actually have a future. I have surpassed what my father intended for me and… now I'm off the rails, in uncharted territory."

And here, she does laugh, and leans companionably against Vasilia.

"Good feeling but… still weird."

Redana!

Alexa grins as she watches Ti'jm.

The young artist hasn't stopped dancing ever since she got back with Redana's response, and keeps borrowing the letter to show it off to one friend or another. Beautiful! Beautiful, the princess said! She's jealous, the princess said! Oh, she's gonna start working on another one right away and really knock her socks off!

And Redana'd even had time to find a blindfold. Probably best not to test the commands in so lethal a way, but…. She misses her too.

Ordering to ignore orders. What a simple idea. Why didn't she think of that? It's such a silly concept, and she's been so worried about killing Redana, that she hadn't even let it cross her mind. No wonder Molech had wanted her to kill Redana and steal the seal--it'd remove one weakness in her programming.

Maybe it'd be worth it after all fo risk it.

Dolce!

It’s deeply unfair. Incredibly unfair, even! How could you ambush Redana like this, Dolce? She’s here to get scolded! After all, what she did was very bad. And when you are very bad, Redana, there have to be consequences! Especially for this, something so much worse than anything she’s done before. Especially now, when there’s no Bella here to get punished behind her back, and all the weight of her actions is supposed to fall on her.

And you just forgive her?

No wonder you reduce her to blubbering as she squeezes your fur and buries her face into your floof. No wonder she shakes and lets her body tremble like the waves crashing against the hull of this dark, forbidding ship. And no wonder her heart flutters like a bird freed from a cage.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I couldn’t save her,” she says. “I could have killed you,” she says. “I’m sorry,” she says, over and over, until the gentle pats and brushies allow her to subside into sniffles and hiccups. “Thank you,” she says, and means it. Means it so, so hard.

Thank you for being, always and ever, kind.

***

Vasilly!

“Bella was filming the whole thing!” Redana says, a little quieter. Not by much. “She had this camera that she was using to record her journey, and she started out so happy and hopeful, but by the time she got to Ridenki she was, well, you know how she was better than maybe I do! But you were interrupted by that horrible thing, and then she left you without helping? The Bella we… I left behind on Tellus never would have left something unfinished like that, because she was a good kitten! She never would have left something half-done!”

Redana’s face goes firm with determination. “When we save her from those assassins,” she says, with unshakable conviction, “I will convince her to apologize to you! I promise, Vasilly! And you can even tie her up if you let me untie her after! That’s fair, isn’t it?”

***

Alexa!

It’s the doodles that really have the heart. Redana’s actual letters are a bit banal, after the first few: hopes that you’re doing all right, updates on the engine room and how secure it is and, wow, is it true that your arms were living light by the end? (She is so sorry you don’t have arms any more, but also, you could probably kill her with your thighs, right? Oh, the things she’s heard from the Coherents about how they feel concerning your thighs!) Hope you get well soon, I’ll send Iskarot with some arm designs, but maybe we should wait to install them to cut on the risk of strangling people (like me) if the blindfold doesn’t work? (Also, how are you supposed to kill yourself without arms? You could try running into a wall, but the wall would break before you could, you know? I suppose you could— but here she breaks off, scribbles out what she wrote so hard the pen leaves a gash in the paper.)

But she starts doodling on the letters, too: Hermetic seals drawn from memory in a lazy moment, more and more abstract wings, Possible Arm Designs? that are increasingly implausible (from tentacles to swords to things that look like broken birdcages). Your face, from memory; hers, from a mirror; half of a sketch of a familiar maid, left unfinished. Starbursts, Poseidon’s mandalas, meditative tools for the worship of the Worldshaker. Flowers from her garden back in Tellus.

She’s always been busy, our princess, throwing herself into tasks on the Plousios. It’s possible that you find out things about her you never would have through your infrequent conversations: how steady her hands can be, how you can tell where she’s set it down and come back hours later based on how her handwriting changes, how she thinks she’s stupid when she can’t immediately come up with perfect solutions like her mother, the genius, the god.

(She slips that into one letter as if she’s forgotten you were not present for that revelation. Redana, daughter of Hermes. Perhaps just accepting what the Hermetics say about her and her mother, but something about the way she wrote it…)

Beljani!

It is a comfort, of sorts, that the Alcedi girl's efforts were even more illiterate than yours. She was some sort of tribal, born to a primitive and backwards colony beyond the reach of Imperator Nero's light. The Imperial Princess must have been desperate indeed to rely on primitives like these.

Good hands, though. There were evidently certain skills you picked up with a lifetime of lounging around on tropical beaches all day.

The Plousios is the second starship you've been on, and it could not be more different than the Anemoi. The Anemoi was as compact as a kilometers long starship could be - cramped, dark, cold, every convenience sacrificed on the altar of speed and stealth. The Plousious is a sprawling affair, a magnificent Tellus district with blossoming interior trees heavy with fruit, and interior open spaces the size of football stadiums. There are lights everywhere - transparent view ports to coursing Engine plasma, glittering suncrystals, magnificent arrays of evercandles - giving the place a pleasantly polychromatic look as the different hues compete with each other. It's very nice, although the Kaeri are doing their best to ruin it. Work crews of the owl servitors are moving about, painting over viewports, snuffing lights, shattering crystals. There's the smell of the ocean and occasional scuttling little crabs beneath your feet.

In a puddle of light that does remain, three armed Kaeri are standing over the wreckage of a Hermetic. It's still alive, huddled beneath yellow robes, but its tripod legs have been shattered in conflict and all about have been scattered multiple broken weapons systems. The Kaeri look up at you lazily as you pass - there's a faint shiver of tension at first, but then a stillness as they realize that they're powerless to stop you, harm you, demand anything of you. So instead, they ask. "Greetings, Assassin," says their leader. "If you would convince this one to talk it would save us a lot of time."

It's not respectful. It's barely even hopeful. Like a passing 'pspsps' at a cat who cannot be expected to move from its sunbeam.

Redana and the Anemoi!

The Master of Assassins could have gone anywhere.

She is the Champion of the Hunt, the Lord of Shadows, the Mistress of Death. She has learned the secrets of each of the great Temples of Artemis in turn. She can kill with mathematics, tapping into the lunatic genius of the Ikarani, setting asteroids and economic systems to do her work. She can kill from disguise, the poison smile of a Toxicrene as she kisses you goodbye. She can kill with words, reorganizing empires into her catspaws. And she can kill with raw, spectacular, violence.

She knows she is being hunted. Knows that she could go anywhere in the galaxy and her foes would follow her. Knows that it is hers to set the time and the date. She could choose the Azura capitol, invisible within a web of meticulously organized courtly violence. She could choose the desolate battlefield of the Trinary Stars, where the ruins of the Azura fleet offer a billion places to hide. She could choose any fortress, any hidden crypt, any necropolis, any dark and shadowed place where the mists rob the senses and conceal the blade.

Instead she has chosen Sahar.

It is a desert world. A lifeless dustbowl, as close to a perfect sphere as a planet can arrange itself to be. There is no cover. There is no subtlety. There is simply the glaring sun and the rolling dunes, mile after mile, with no beginning and no end. There are no fleets in system, the nearest life is a distant Azura observation post and gas giant mining colony, almost a day's travel away. Otherwise, this place is a nowhere, a nothing.

She has landed the Plousios on the planet. It is visible from orbit - the black metal shatteringly clear against crystal white sands. And she has gone outside, with her Kaeri and her servants, to take a walk.

You are aboard the cramped and dim bridge of the Anemoi, watching this senseless act. If anything could be more different than this ship, it is this planet, this place. A flicker of trepidation makes its way through the crew, dark imaginings and quiet mutterings. Nobody understands this, and it fills the halls with dread.

They must have given her one of the Princess' outfits. Nobody else would have silks this smooth around, not even on a debauched party cruiser like this one with its panoply of lights in all these unfair colors and its primitive beach girl servitors. Not to mention, no one else out of anybody she heard Bella yelling about, or anybody she'd seen while she sang for that party, would have had the bravery required to put on a dress as uselessly diaphanous as this one. It covered nothing, so that her complexion and each one of her muscles (or the softness that lived where they ought to be, had she lived a less pampered life) was on display as brazenly as the underwear that went with it. It was a pretty, dainty, delicate little number for somebody either absurdly proud of her body or waaaaay too into "certain types" of holos.

It's also, point of fact, the only way to explain why somebody would have had to hastily cut and restitch it just to make it fit her.

"It's a joke. Honestly it's such a joke. Heir to the throne, daughter of Zeus! And she turns out the size of a puppy with a ratio even smaller than she is. Great taste in fabrics, though. Mmmf. I guess if we're still catching her I'll have to compliment her fashion sense."

That's why they knew they'd get away with the rush job, too. Not a damn thing close to a seamstress anywhere on this ship, not without the mice, but these silks were so rich she could drown herself in the feeling of rubbing them against her arms, her legs, her tummy, and her hips. Delicious. The very best sort of indulgence: the kind that made her not care who saw her.

It's so nice, Beljani almost passed right by the Kaeri and their broken Hermetic in a haze. What did she care? Let the bullies break the can. Depths, let them waste a year trying to pry secrets out of it. It'd be funny to watch them bounce off one of the empire's greatest secret keepers. Kaeri swearing was always hilarious. And they were useless without her talents, especially with somebody as mech'd up as this poor loser. And they knew it. And they still didn't ask with anything even bordering on respect. Feh. She'd watch later. She's got stuff to do, don't you cretins know, important stuff that...

"Hold on a minute."

Beljani pauses in front of the broken heap, her slinky dress shimmering in the wonderfully indulgent puddle of light around what probably used to be his feet. She furrows her brow. And then she frowns. Or she pouts. Artemis, she's asking nicely this time, please let her be frowning.

"I thought you machine-heads just sort of came with the ship? You know, 'secrets of the engines~' and all that crap. Don't get me wrong, I'm as mad as anybody about how much these nitwits are busting up this perfectly pretty little boat, but you don't see me getting pulled apart like a butterfly over it, do you? No, this doesn't make any sense. What's your deal, old man? What's this ship hiding, or what the fffff... frig is it worth to you that you're alright getting dissected for it? Never even heard of a Hermetic loyal to a regime. Come on, geezer, spill."

She's asking, but she's not. Beljani's smile is just as friendly as it is full of predatory teeth. This is a lead. This is a lead, or she's dumber than Bella. This place has got secrets, or if not the ship then the busted up junk heap lying in front of her. Either way he's got the goods. Something tasty enough that Beautiful could turn it into a weapon faster than she could fry an egg. Something nasty enough that the Master would think it's worth activating a Diodekoi over it. Spill it. Spill it! Tell her now, don't you dare resist, don't you dare make her push herself right now, don't you...

Beljani stiffens abruptly, and perks her ears. There's a weird pinching sensation on her toes. She bends down to pick up a tiny crab making its way across her dress and stares at it in befuddlement. There's no way this is normal, right? This place has to be hiding something. She flicks the tiny thing away from her down the hall, and then? She smiles. Because she. Has had. The best. Idea.

"And while we're busy becoming such good friends," she sings, "You can write my letter for me. It's for my sister, so it has to be perfect. Understand?"

If she stares at it hard enough, maybe she'll see the detail that will suddenly make it make sense. If she can just find what doesn't make sense and pick at it, examine it from every angle, she'll find the clue that will suddenly recontextualize everything.

But that's just it. None of this makes sense.

Alexa huffs, puts the blindfold back on, and turns away from the window.

"She is sacrificing every other advantage she can take, any other trap she could lay, all so that she can see us coming. She could have chosen any place, set any trap… and she chooses an empty planet where we have to approach in plain sight. Only the Kaeri to back her up, with no benefits of subtlety, disguise, empire. Why?

"It is possible she knows something we don't about this planet--perhaps it is an abandoned weapon of some sort. But even if it were, I struggle to see how it could be more effective than her own talents, especially in a more opportune planet. So why here?

"No doubt she knows the commands Molech has placed on me. Having taken the Plouisios, she cannot help but find him. Perhaps she hopes to exploit them to sow discord in the ranks, or counts on me following them in predictable ways. But she can use that knowledge somewhere else. So why Sahar?

"Why does she want open sight lines above everything else? Does she have a weapon that must be aimed? Does she want to guarantee that Redana is present before committing to an action? Does she simply want to guarantee that she can see everyone, have a commanding view of a battle?

"And most important to understanding this, I think: what does she want? What is her win condition here? Does she want us dead? Does she want Redana home? Does she hope to barter?

"What does she know that we don't?"

Redana sits, awkwardly, in the palanquin, with its protective curtains[1]. Once again, she’s where her mother (the goddess) once sat: listening to her generals and advisors argue about an impossible situation. The difference is that Nero/Hermes/Mommy would see through the attempt to trick her. She’d just flex her brain and everything would fall into place; she wouldn’t just see right away what the plan was, she would see the pieces of the trap and know how to take them apart.

But there’s nothing but sand trickling through her thoughts. The procession winds its way across the sands of Sahar, and there’s no way for her to see if Bella’s down there among them, as companion or prisoner, trophy or sacrifice.

She needs to say something. She needs to make some royal pronouncement. She needs to show that she’s not useless. But her thoughts keep slipping, impossible to hold onto. Tumbling down into the dark. Into the Rift. Into oblivion.

When two stray thoughts finally clash strongly enough to cause a spark, she latches onto it, and turns to Lacedo of First Fleet, whose outfit is… interesting[2]. “She’s expecting us to go for the Plousios,” she whispers. “Because she’s left it unguarded. But that’s a trap! She might have left commandos inside, or set the reactor to blow remotely, or any number of things! So we need to land our shuttles between her and the Plousios, but not too close!”

And the princess sits back, relaxing her shoulders ever so slightly, relieved that she came up with something useful to say, while Lacedo raises her voice and speaks on Redana’s behalf to everyone outside the palanquin[3].

Hang on, Bella. She’s coming.

***

[1]: not because they are armored. They are simple, everyday curtains. But it’s best to have redundancies in play to make it easier on Alexa.

[2]: it’s very… colorful. And jingly. And there’s so, um. Well! Not a lot of it! And Lacedo keeps picking at it and adjusting it and then leaning closer to Redana and it’s not helping with trying to think! Is it some sort of Alcedi fashion? Or did she pick something up from the Azura? And why in all the worlds was she wearing it while stuck in a palanquin with Redana of all people, with nobody to look at how she’s showing off? Because as it is, Redana’s the only person to get to see it and, um! Well!! Um!!! Can she really be blamed for having her thoughts blank out when Lacedo stretches next to her and takes a deep breath??

[3]: redundancies.

This night, the papers have departed, taking with them maps, memos, and missives alike. They leave only questions to linger around the shoulders of a sheep and a lioness, sitting apart on the same bed. His heart races to pump the Thunderer’s lightning through his body, and any moment he will burst from the strain. He must talk. He cannot talk. But he must. He must go first.

She is waiting, still.

“That night, when you told me about what had happened between you and Bella, I’d thanked you for being honest with me. And, I did mean it. But when I said that you didn’t need to apologize anymore, that I wasn’t hurt, I don’t think I did mean that. I hadn’t really given it much thought; how could I have meant it? But I thought I did, and I thought it was enough, and I couldn’t explain why it wasn’t so. You kept asking, too, checking in to see if my answer had changed. And every time, I told you the same thing. I was fine. I’d accepted your apology. Everything would be fine, now. But nothing felt fine, and I didn’t want to burden you with nothing more than vague feelings.”

Amazing, how such a sensible plan sounded like rubbish when he had to speak it aloud.

“Do you remember when you offered me your post? Just earlier, that day, Hera had told me that I could, perhaps, learn more about what was the matter if I found something new to work for. It couldn’t have come at a better time. Even though…” He quietly promised to make Hera a nice snack. “I wasn’t sure it was such a good idea. I was just a chef. What business did I have, putting on a fancy hat and telling people what to do? How badly might that go?”

Unconsciously, his hand drifted to his chest, and rubbed at soft wool that only yesterday ached to the touch.

“It. Hasn’t gone perfectly, yes. Ah, no, that’s beside the point. We’re here, and we’re alive, and we have the Lanterns now, and that’s more than I thought we’d get. It’s more than I thought I could do, even though it nearly all went wrong. After…after I got hurt, it got me to thinking; if I could do this much, then perhaps I could think a little more about what I wanted? If I’m at least this much more than a chef, then, maybe, I could ask a little more?”

“And I realized I wanted you. Vasilia, I want you so badly. I don’t want to travel, or do any of this, if it’s not with you. But when you and Bella…” A hundred words offer their services. None feel up to the task. So they burn, restless, in his throat.

“Dolce…” She looks so worried. At him. At his chest. At his face. “If you don’t-”

“Please. Please listen, I have to get through this part. I can do this.”

“Very well. Just. Just be careful. We can speak more tomorrow. It doesn’t have to all be tonight.”

Wouldn’t that be nice? But he cannot rest on the thought of retreat too long. If the momentum is gone, then…! “I thought about losing you, Vasillia. I’d always worried, maybe one day, you’d realize I was just a silly little chef, but never, I’d never actually lived in a world where it might happen. And that hurt. It hurt terribly. Losing you, that would hurt more than anything, ever. I kept thinking about what I could do to make the feeling go away. There must be something I could do to make sure this would never happen again. But all this? Being Captain? Made me realize I didn’t just want you. I want a life with you, Vasilia. Not just any life. Not a life where I serve you in fear of losing you. I want a life where I serve you because I’d burst if I couldn’t. I want to wake up, and know that you’re there as sure as I breathe. I want to make your meals, find you treasures, plan such adventures with you, and hardly be able to think straight for how much I’m looking forward to your smile. And I can’t see your smile if I’m too busy worrying I’ll lose it.”

She does not smile, now. Where a smile might live is broken, and her eyes are anguished longing, and her hands tremble not to hold him, and through the pain she manages a slight, questioning nod.

The words are exhausted, now. Let whatever may come, come. He nods back.

And at once she gathers him up and sits him on her lap and wraps her arms around him tight, so tight. “You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me, darling. My darling. Whenever, wherever you fear, you must tell me. If you’re able, please, tell me. I thought I could see you hurting, but when I asked you, you always said you were so fine, and, and! I didn’t know what to think anymore. If I’d known, I would have told you, in any way you needed me to say it, that you were my most precious treasure. And nothing would ever, ever change that. My dear heart. My dear, dear Dolce.”

Of all the terrible futures he might have brought about, somehow, he never thought to really anticipate the one he was hoping for. “Vasilia…” Now, he trembles. Now, the tension locked tight in his heart releases, and he holds onto her for dear life.

“Shhh. Shhh, it’s alright, darling. It’ll be okay. I’m here. It’ll be okay.” She whispers into his wool, brushing the terrifying thoughts aside like so much dust. “I want to know how I can keep from hurting you again. You don’t deserve to face that from me, ever again.”

“I think…in the future, we shouldn’t do a plan like that, even if we’re out of options. Where we play with hearts, I mean. It doesn’t feel right, and, even if I know it’s for the mission, I don’t think I can keep from breaking apart.”

“Of course. Of course. Where should I draw the line? Touching another’s arm? A clever line to throw them off-balance?” When he grew quiet, to think, she added. “Whatever answer you give is okay. I don’t want to win a victory at your expense.”

“I think, if it were just teasing, perhaps? And you yourself were out of reach? I don’t know…”

“We’ll start there, then. If we need to move it, you can signal me. Cough loudly, or, I don’t know, do something attention-grabbing. We can work on it. Together.”

He feels, rather than sees, the thought approaching. The tensing of her shoulders. Her chest swelling with a sharp, bracing breath.

“Here. Just so you know, I don’t tell this story out of guilt. Well, okay, there’s guilt, but it’s not the motivating factor. You’ve not, forced this out of me, even though it is a rather big exercise in trust, but, ugh!” Pouting lionesses were difficult to take seriously. Fortunately, he had a lot of practice. “Look. It’s a story that I wish I had told you a long time ago. It’s a story you ought to hear, one that very few people in the universe know. And I want to trust you with it. I want you to hear it, and see me. As I am. Not…not as I might pretend to be, at times…”

Fitting, that the telling should begin how it would end; in each other’s arms. As gaps were filled, and a hundred questions answered, he nestled up in the crook of her arm, where he’d always fit. Her hands found their homes in his wool. Their heartbeats slowed, as one. There was much to learn, for the both of them. Too much to fit into a single night. They had thoughts to turn over, experiments to try, questions that would only come in time. But all must begin somewhere.

They were together again. Let that be enough to start.

********************************

“She means to kill the Princess.” Dolce says from his seat. “It was her aim on Salib. I don’t think she would give up so easily.”

“Not on treachery of that level, no.” Vasilia added, standing by his side as she surveyed the scene. “If she means to kill the heir, then she most certainly won’t stop with that. All of us are loose ends she must tie up, and this will be her best chance.”

“Indeed.” He nodded, then raised his voice over the collective murmuring. “Mynx? If you are listening, you have the best insight of all of us into her plans. What do you think?”

The Anemoi!

The room shifts uneasily, looking for Mynx. Someone spots her and the crowded bridge rearranges to clear the space around her so people can see. She sits on the cool plastic floor, eyes dark, tracing an invisible line along the back of her hand, up her arm, to her throat and settling into place there, the ghost of a hand around her neck. She looked up at last.

"Ah, I'm not invisible," she said quietly. "Somehow that's worse."

She relaxed her hand, leaned forwards. "You're asking the wrong questions. The Master of Assassins knows better than to try to come up with a plan," there are shades of bitterness in that word. "She puts her fate in the hands of the Gods. A lifeless dust bowl like this? It's an offense to Aphrodite, Demeter and Artemis. They won't come here."

She took a deep breath. "It's Zeus you should fear. The Master is a king amidst assassins and, at the end, she will kill you as a king."

Beljani!

Convincing someone like this isn't about brute force control; there's not a struggle. It's about extending yourself into them, giving them the gift of your own agenda. And the Order of Hermes, bless them, are primitives.

You actually know your way around the Order surprisingly well - they were the most likely target for your Temple, right behind internal Imperial threats. And for all their collection of relics and all their mechanical components, the poor dears are ultimately mere guns against the perfected arrows of your will. So you know all the hidden codes in the Hermetic's robes which is very convenient. You know, for instance, that his name is Iskarot, he is an Archmagos - as high a rank as they have, although he is very recently appointed - and an Evoker, which is the branch specialized in direct energy weaponry. It gives you the cue you need to suggest that no explosions should happen without your approval, and the satisfaction of knowing that you probably saved the Kaeri from being reduced to a greasy smear if the machine man self destructed.

His version of the letter is... fine. His handwriting is good, certainly. He has, however, written it in a format of extremely blunt emotions. I AM SAD. I WANT YOU TO LIKE ME. PLEASE BE MY FRIEND. And so on. Surely there has to be a more poetic way of phrasing this?

He does, however, have a treasure. The Order of Hermes always does if you shake them right. But it's not what you expected.

In the quiet thrumming depths of a small workshop run right up against the stellar heat of the Engine, the limping Hermetic reveals a small padded box with a single large egg resting snugly within. It's black, flecked with blue, and you can faintly hear a tap-tapping against the inside of the shell as whatever is inside stirs against the shell, trying to get out.

What a strange old man, willing to take such a beating to protect this little thing.

"What the... what is this? You let the Kaeri smash your legs to bits for an egg? What, do you think your god's hidden away in there or something? Buddy, lemme tell you I have met Hermes and you are looking in the wrong... n-never mind."

Beljani pulls her arms in close and wraps herself in an awkward hug. That's a bad memory. Maybe her worst memory. She wishes it would have happened to someone else. But it didn't. It didn't. And the fact that the Master put this entire ship's resources into pampering her and rewarding her for coming back hasn't done a thing to make her forget that she was the one who made her hurt so much in the first place. That she's got a weapon like that, hidden behind all of her other ones. That she's willing to use a weapon like that. On her own...

She shudders. Her eyes flit away from the stupid, useless egg back to the latest incarnation of her letter. She snarls and crumples it into a ball with pointless, almost comedic aggression. She gets halfway to throwing it before the look of regret crosses her face, and she quickly unfurls it and smooths it out as best she can again against her thigh.

"This is so useless, I can't give her this! She'll laugh! She'll laugh so hard she won't even read how I feel! Ugh, but it's the best one. I... gods, how is this the best I can do?! I feel like I'm gonna explode if I don't get this out of me, and only presentable version I have after a whole, what, four hours of work is 'I am sad'. Disgusting. This is disgusting. I wanna kill someone. I should kill someone. I'm gonna kill someone! Do we really not have a single twice-damned scribe anywhere on this ship? I can't ask, even if she would I..."

Down here in this cramped little workshop, there's nothing that remotely passes for a comfortable chair. She doesn't care. For the first time in her life, Beljani doesn't care. She tucks herself on a nearby crate, which is hard and unpleasant and makes her butt and tail ache almost instantly, so she can just sit. Breathe. Hold her head in her hands and try as hard as she can not to cry. She sniffles anyway.

"You know who I miss?" she asks in a quiet voice, knowing better than to wait for an answer, "I miss Mynx. Of all my sisters, she's the one I could really talk to. It was her job, I guess. But still. Beautiful's better at it, but she spends most of her time sealed so she doesn't explode, and even when she's awake sometime she'll figure out where the conversation is going and just sort of... skip to the end of it. And Bella... mmf. I could talk to Mynx. I could have conversations with Mynx. She'd know how to fix this. Why isn't she here? Why did she abandon us?"

Nobody spoke to Beljani, not hardly at all. Imperials, from the humans on down to the menial servitors, only spoke to her like they would a spoiled, useless pet. They wanted out of her sight as soon as they could manage, and not a single one of them could be bothered to so much as keep the contempt out of their voices while they did it. They were jealous. Of her talents, of her treats. But still. They only talked to her if she made them. And that didn't count.

Spreading to someone was just as pointless. Too weird. They only spoke if she spoke through them and that. It. Just advanced talking to herself, and she did too much of that already. Not that anyone should be allowed to blame her. She hated the quiet, is all. Hated the feeling of being alone. Which is just natural when everyone you know swaps back and forth between lazily asking you for favors and asking you what it is you want so they can keep you comfy and spoiled and useless. Sure, she enjoyed it. Just like she enjoyed every pretty thing they snuck into her bed when they changed the sheets. But it didn't fill that tiny little ache inside her heart.

It was only just a little while ago when she realized it was there. After Mynx and Bella both disappeared and there really wasn't anybody left to talk to. Her sisters were the only ones she could properly talk to. They weren't afraid of her virus. They didn't think of her as a useless little lapdog. Even though Bella... mmf. Such a waste. Bella at least meant her insults. Maybe if she hadn't wasted so much time getting mad and jealous they could have...

Beljani angrily wipes the tears out her eyes before they can stain her pretty face. Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid! This is what the letter's for, dummy! You're gonna fix it. You're gonna fix everything, and then your life will fit back into place and you can be happy in your luxury again! You had this all figured out, remember?

She sniffs loudly, and flicks the wiggling egg with her nail.

"Hey stupid. Hatch already. Whatever kind of miracle you're hiding from Archmagos Sparky over, hurry up and spill it. It's hot and cramped and uncomfortable in here, and I'm not sticking around. Ten seconds. You've got ten seconds to wow me, and then I'm taking you to the kitchens and frying you for lunch."

It’s Zeus you should fear. Redana’s hackles rise. When has she ever been afraid of her father? Even once? Her father is complicated and scared of the cycle of violence and wants you to be the most yourself that you can possibly be. And, sure, that might mean encouraging the Master of Assassins to be the best killer that she can be, but part of being Redana Claudius is being very good at not being killed, so it will even out, probably!

“Well, Zeus doesn’t give her favor to people who sit in the back,” she says, a little too loudly, before she remembers to keep talking through Lacedo. “She doesn’t! If I stay up here, she’ll turn out to have a plan for blowing this horrible ship out of the sky. At least if we all go down together, she’ll have to go through all of us. And that way, my dad— Zeus the Thunderer will be more inclined to look on us with favor, too. I say we land and meet her with our heads held high.”

It’s a scary thought, but what’s scarier is the plan of staying up here while her friends risk their lives, or worse, not having a plan at all. Just spinning her wheels while, down there, Bella suffers and the Master of Assassins waits smugly. Better to do something, anything. Better to try.