Breathe, Dany. Breathe. Don’t inhale crab. Don’t choke on the crab. The strings of her are pulled taut, and— for a moment she isn’t sure which self she is. Ember is being handled by her lover, but this Princess Dany must have felt like this when Bella touched her.

How they must have played, Princess Dany and Admiral Bella. In her mind’s eye, Ember pours Bella into a tight spacer’s jacket and thigh-hugging leggings, chest resplendent in medals, boots reaching her knees, holding her cap emblazoned with the golden trident of Poseidon with the quiet confidence that she holds Dany’s chin. “We will keep to my heading,” the Admiral tells the pouting princess, “and you will hold your tongue or I will have you escorted to your quarters.” And it’s a challenge, and a promise, and the implicit threat to make sure she stays in those quarters to await the Admiral’s pleasure…

What else could she have been? The obvious strength, the command, the control. The confidence as Captain of the Plousios. And there’s one surefire way that a polity can keep an ambitious, Mars-blessed warlord loyal.

Ember manages to swallow, having been helped to chew. She leans her chin into Bella’s hand, and draws from her deepest reserves of personal courage to ask the gloating, charismatic demigoddess before her: “…how long were we engaged? Do you remember?”

If only she could remember, in turn. She would have worn white, with a red flower at her breast, for the imperial engagement. Her hair in a bun like this[1]. A bell at Bella’s ear, silver to complement naval black. A dance, her own small hand resting in Bella’s.

Yes. A dance. They’ve danced before. Or— did she watch a young man dance with Bella? Or did they watch a reel together, about the dances, Bella’s little head resting on a child’s shoulder? It’s all a mess, all a tangle, and she doesn’t know, she can’t know, what this commanding warlord remembers of promises or chases—

Chases.

“…did I run away from the wedding??”

---

[1]: further proof that Bella remembers, at some level. Her fingers know exactly how her bride-to-be should look.

"You... did," Bella says, "Run away, I mean."

Lying. The desire not to. Lying. Lying. Bella's grip on Ember tightens until it's painful for both of them. She forgets how to breathe; she numbers the dead once more. It takes a soft, warm hand on hers to restore her, and when she looks down she sees Ember's liquid eyes trying with full bravery to look into hers.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to--"

"No," Bella cuts her off, "You should hear this."

Knowing every physical reaction that went into lying made Bella one of the best practitioners of the art anywhere in the galaxy. She did it all the time, even from childhood. But being skilled at something and it being easy weren't the same thing. The need to carefully shut down specific parts of her body to keep them from triggering detectable reactions was stressful in the extreme. To someone like Mynx who knew even more intimately than she did what that looked like she was even more obvious the more effort she put into being subtle. And Ember... had the potential. To see through her. It sent rigid terror down Bella's spine.

The gnawing hunger she felt just now, hearing those words. The desire to explain everything, all at once, and drag her Dany back into the world exactly the way she remembered her. And she did remember her. Perfectly. Artemis had triggered the reset herself, in the kind of exacting detail that only she cared about. The distinction of the memories between the Praetor Bella and the demigod Mosaic were clearer than crystal inside her mind. But if she admitted that... if she admitted that, it meant.

Pain. Pain for Ember, pain for her. Was it so wrong to take the middle path? Was it a crime to leave the most important person in the universe in the dark, where she earnestly believed in weddings and true love and even her horror scenarios were just that little bit sweet? Was it evil to let Redana dream? Just for a while longer? Or forever, if she could manage it.

Still. Lying. The stress of it made her tail bush and her claws crush silverware to dust. To do that, forever if she must...

"You didn't run from me. You just ran. Because..."

She closes her eyes. Sucks air as deep into her lungs as it will go, and pulls the scent of the feast and of her, her, her, her -- say it now -- her bride along with it. She holds these things in her lungs. Half-truths. Those were always easier to maintain. She sighs.

"Lord Hades told you our," she bites her lip, "Marriage would be... cursed. If you didn't find Gaia, the lost birthplace of our Empire. Everything about our relationship would be chains and misery, woven by your mother. Unwittingly. She... it's complicated. I've still got blurs where I can't piece the details together. But I know she didn't want you going. But you left anyway. You just did such a shitty job of explaining why that I thought you'd dumped me."

It's a bitter laugh that escapes her this time. She holds onto Ember as if afraid she'll vanish into nothing if she lets go, even as she reaches to feed herself some of the crab she's been neglecting all this time. It's been so long since she's sat down and actually eaten real food. She'd almost forgotten what it felt like. The flaky, sweet flesh and the pockets of juice that burst against her tongue. She swallows, and she flushes hot with embarrassment when she notices the sound rising from her throat.

"The, the point is we're not married, Ember. Not, not yet. But, when we, find Gaia, then..."

Bella trails off in failure. It's too much. She can't do it. Handing the wish back is the same as crushing the new life she felt so suddenly desperate to hold onto. Even though no part of her monstrous life deserved to. She tilts her head to look up at the sky. Trying so hard to see the stars she and Dany had imagined from inside the Palace walls as children. The ones she tried to paint, to keep her Princess' feet on the miserable ground with her. The ones she'd destroyed in a fit of rage. The ones she'd made again when she was completely alone and had nothing else to convince her to attempt sailing the True Sea one last time.

The same childish stars she so desperately wants Ember to see, too. That she can never explain, for fear of harming the one thing she wants to protect more than all the rest of the galaxy combined. The tears that streak down her face have no explanation. They cannot be allowed to.

It wouldn’t.

Not “she” wouldn’t. It wouldn’t. His and Vasilia’s story wouldn’t end there. Water is wet. The void is dangerous. The gods are immanent. He only takes notice of the thought because a goddess has contradicted it, and only then to wonder how he knows it to be true. Never to think it could be false.

He might say that is what separates it from setting a broken bone. The crucial difference.

He might.

“Thank you. I shall give your advice all due consideration.” he bows his head in shame. “Though much of your wisdom may be too lofty for me. Your servant has been striving to fill the gaps in my education, and I do so appreciate our talks, he’s really quite wonderful at it. But I am just a chef. As far as we’ve come, we still have quite a ways to go.”

See the humble wrinkles in his forehead. See the sincere effort in the scrunch of his nose. Could any such student be accused of lacking honest effort?

His wife’s not a horse. Hrm. That could also be crucial.

I!--

What?

Are you actually insane? Like, out of your gourd mental, off your rocker lunatic?

(Note to self: invent a rocker for Azura. Seems like a very good way to spend a fortnight or two and after that, she gets to curl up around a bucket of cocoa on her new rocker.)

Have you forgotten the, I dunno, half-dozen hours we just spent fighting a snake-turned-tree-turned-crab?

(Which, now that she thinks about that evolutionary arc, she's almost jealous?)

But the point is, no stabbing! Minimal stabbing! Minimal, ahaha, minimal point!

She is realizing, now that it's very important, that the sword did not come with a holster. Sheath. Sheaths are for swords, holsters are for guns. Unless they're scabbards, which.

Scabbards for swords, holsters for guns, sheaths for knives, maybe?

A-ny-way, the sword did not come with anything to protect the sharp edge from, for instance, sending an unsuspecting Stonetribe laborer into another realm where fuck knows what's happening. And she doesn't know that it isn't doing that, and she doesn't know how to turn it off or turn it on and she really needs to figure out how to turn it off, because turning it off either brings back the sheep she very much didn't stab or brings herself back to whatever reality is--

Look, this is going to get very confusing. Either way, she wants out. Out of this hallway, potentially out of this reality, and for that she needs someone who can figure out this sword.

Someone who is not siccing waves of people on her for her to dodge, juke, and very gently throw out of the way. She's doing a lot more movement than they are--dodging from floor to ceilings, freezing feet and hands to walls, and diving her bulk into quickly-created holes in their ranks.

She has a sword. Now all she needs is a plan.

[Get away: 6,4,+2. 12. Choosing to get away quickly and quietly, avoiding harm and attention. She's looking for someone who might understand this technology--probably to Brightberry, though I'm open to alternatives]

Ember stares. Her hands are balled in her lap. She is twisted about in her seat, staring so hard that a guilty conscience might be pricked by the remorseless gaze of her mismatched eyes.

“Then what the fuck are we waiting for?” She bushes up as she says that, nearly rising out of Bella’s lap. “Why haven’t you given me the orders to have the Silver Divers hunt for information? This is a quest from the gods, Mos—“

She flinches, droops her ears. Disappointed in herself.

“Bella. I’ll do anything to see it through. Forget hiding in suns. Forget the Azura. We’ll defeat them all if we have to. I swear to you, as your— as your knight. We’ll find it together, and then, and then… if you’ll still have me…”

Because she’s not the Princess Redana, she doesn’t say. Because she’s just Ember, Alpha of the Silver Divers. Because you command me and handle me in a way that makes me thrill. Because we’re so fucking obviously in love. Because the thought of wearing a bride’s white gown is a thrill that makes her want to jump up and run laps. Because I would do anything for you.

Her tail is thumping into a plate of crab, repeatedly.

Bella and Dyssia!

Bella, you have spent a very relaxing afternoon reading in your room. It is calm, it is quiet, it is safe.

And then an enormous blue snake bursts in through your door clutching a giant sword.

How exactly does that go for her?

Ember!

The Silver Divers are having a great deal of fun with their Azura Sorceress. Hands bound and mouth gagged, she makes her way across the ship painting the glyphs of warding with a paintbrush attached to her tail. Magic has always existed, even in this far future where it and technology have intertwined - some people are simply blessed by the gods to be sorceresses, and some people are blessed by the gods with the strength to overcome sorceresses.

While that's happening, a council of the pack elders has been called. New tactics and strategies need to be discussed. Agonizingly, this must take place under the most favoured of Mars' rituals: transparent paper placed upon a lit surface, amplification crystal projecting it upon the wall.

"We're up against two intertwined threats," said Sagetip. "And we cannot allow the threat of one to blind us to the other. The first is, of course, the Biomancer-General Liquid Bronze. On his own merits he is a terror; he travels with the normal biomantic retinue of a Drone swarm and has a host of apprentice Biomancers working under him. Additionally his speciality is in burnout tactics - that is, overclocking biological life so that they achieve vastly superior short term prowess at the cost of long term sustainability. Against his forces everything will come down to surviving the first wave, and so we will need to front load our defenses as much as possible when they are deployed.

"The second threat is the Summerkind - and realistically, this is what will be deployed against us first. There's no glory in killing Ceronians with Drones, but proving that his own warrior servitor species can take us on even ground - that'll get the attention of his peers. So it will likely be the Summerkind and they're a devil of a problem. Their lifespan is not a combat weakness; deaths simply restart their cycle to predeployment. We don't have the Biomancer cohort on hand to crack and format Summerkind eggs. The absolute requirement we face, then, is controlling the field after every engagement - that will allow us to incinerate any eggs and thereby attrit their forces."

"That's just chasing defeat," grumbled Plundering Fang. "Sure we can burn a few eggs, but what good will that do us? We're a pack, he'll be bringing his legions. The only move that makes sense is a decapitation strike."
"But that will force Liquid Bronze to deploy his Drones and then we'll be fighting both forces simultaneously!" said Sagetip.
"Good," grinned Plundering Fang. "Like you said, there's no glory in him Droning us to death, so there's no glory lost by dying to that."

Dolce!

"Well," said Demeter sympathetically. "I understand. You weren't built to be decisive. That's really the main thing that stops people from understanding me - most people are just not built properly. But don't worry. Sooner or later you'll meet one of my Chosen and they'll fix the broken parts of your brain and your heart. Then you'll understand."

She steps away into the garden. "Anyway, like I said, I'm feeling generous," said Demeter, dropping to her knees and sinking her hands into the soil. "I have my own family, so why shouldn't everyone else?" The work she does is hard, hands plunging into soft, dark earth, tearing leaves and sap, pulling roots, stripping stems. "And I believe, truly, that nobody should go hungry in my galaxy. You play a small but important part in making that happen. So why shouldn't you be rewarded with a murderous assassin? I'll even clear her presets for you - may as well while I'm here - give her whatever name you wish and they will become her target."

The body that grows is beautiful; long and angular, soft fur and curved musculature, lips that promise softness and horns and hooves that promise violence. There is undeniably something of the divine in the shape of a body perfected.

There was nothing more that could be said with words. Their destination was already set. Maybe it even had been before either of them had been born. Bella neither knew or cared, when what was in front of her already meant more than she could understand. There's little of the touch of a maid attending to her princess in her fingers just now; this grip belongs to Mosaic. The same fingers, the same memories, but the pressure spoke of a confidence and control she hadn't felt even on the Tunguska.

...There are really only so many ways you can cook a crab. Especially without real supplies, a proper kitchen, or a chef's training. Even the variety in the creatures themselves can only do so much before the feast turns into a monotonous chore: just resentful chewing through the same flaky sweetness and fat, fighting to swallow as much as possible before reaching for the drinks to keep the latter from running out before the former. It's a test of willpower rather than an indulgence of pleasure. It's jaw pain and sore throats and an uncomfortable churn in the stomach begging to stop, just please stop.

But Bella eats it all without complaint, for the sake of the journey ahead. The most she does is explain the process of winemaking, and her plans to manufacture something modeled after Nero's distilleries in the Plosious as soon as she could find the time and resources. But even this dies down to nothing so she can focus on the food. Her body needs the energy, if she's going to make it Gaia.

It's not a big thing at all. It's just that, for the first time since Tellus became a memory, the future feels like it might be more important than the past.

[Bella will Fill Her Belly, and heal Iron]

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

There was still nothing to be done about the ridiculous nature of Mosaic's wardrobe. Bella was running out of tricks and alterations she could make without turning this into her only project, and unfortunately her days of isolated pursuit of hobbies were behind her. So until she finally found a planet that was willing to barter a supply of dresses worth half a shit, this is what life meant for her.

Relaxing today meant putting herself in a very tight black suit with knee-high boots worn over equally black pants that were somehow even tighter than the rest of the ensemble, worn so close to her skin and fur that they were really more akin to leggings despite the material and the deliberate creases pressed into the center of each leg. Black on black on black, with gold filigree in a stylized pattern of unfurling wings spreading across her chest on either side of a brilliant golden tie. Of course this being a Mosaic piece meant the stomach had been cut free from the shirt and jacket both, so even though she'd buttoned them until they conformed to her every bend and curve she was still exposed across the midriff.

It was easier to handle than normal. Not simply for the comfort of being alone, but because she'd tossed a long, crimson overcoat across her shoulder almost like a cloak. Her blue-black hair tumbled down the back of it, the left half in tight braids woven like rows of crops and the right half merely brushed until it flowed like a river. Perched atop her nose were a set of golden frames holding glasses over her eyes, somehow delicate and sloppy at the same time as they kept the vaguely oval lenses where she needed them.

She does not look up from her book when Dyssia crashes through the door. The glasses' work at hand: she'd been given a pair like this for study in Tellus. By Sagakhan, but never let a bitch mother ruin a good idea. The lenses themselves were just plain glass; the very idea of corrective eyewear was so alien to her that she didn't even know that people once upon a time would have mocked her for this. It was nowhere in her histories, after all, and the grand Human works she'd grown up watching or seen painted on the ancient liquid crystal canvases in Hades' palace never lead her to believe they served the Ancients any differently than they did her. The simple act of having them on her face meant she had to direct effort on the words in front of her. A thousand predator/prey instincts and the universe's most overtuned eyes stopped feeding her information that wasn't pertained to her studies when she had them on. Making them again in life had been difficult but worth it, because now when she had a day like this to spend in pleasure she could...

"Useless fucking asshole." she mutters, snapping Silk, Steel, and Heartstrings: A Treatise on Love and Lust, Volume III shut and squeezing it between her fingers.

She does not glance up when the Azura woman squeaks with panic, nor when she bobbles the door in the act of shutting it and winds up slamming it harder than intended. Bella's ear presses against her skull for a moment, but her focus is entirely on the closed manuscript in her hand.

"I've never read anybody who knew less about love and still turn up with so much to say about it. Honestly, I know the Skies favor constant iteration of a craft until they hit perfection but this fuckhead stopped experimenting with her verse halfway through the first volume. I thought surely the published works would be her selected best, but like. Fuck me.

"Desperately I yearn to feel her flesh yield beneath my fingers, grasping empty in the dark. To sigh, the song of loneliness and sorrow. I weep into the night sky with Aphrodite's painful arrow my only companion.

"Idiot's never fucked a woman before in her entire life. If you wanted her so bad your fingers would be so deep inside yourself you wouldn't even be able to pick up a pen, let alone moan about it like that. Ridiculous. She doesn't show the first bit of interest in explaining the intensity of the heart, includes nothing in her songs about the motivating force of the lance that's supposed to be driven through her heart. I can't feel it pulling her even if I close my eyes and put myself in her place. Not even the decency to be afraid of a fire that should be melting her bones from the middle out. Injustice. That's what this is. It's a crime. Was she ever arrested, do you know? I hope this bitch, specifically, got her planet bombarded and was crushed under... whatever, I don't know. Something ironic I guess. Is this why you rebelled against your society? 'Cause honestly, I wouldn't blame you."

At last, her focus shifts. She sets the book on her desk and carefully plucks her reading frames off her face before she sets them down next to it with the care that would normally be afforded to a relic sacred to all of Olympus. Just now, her eyes could freeze a Leviathan in place. Bella sniffs the air, and gives her intruder a polite nod.

"You here to kill me, then? No? Then put that sword down, Dyssia. I've been meaning to talk to you."

“Plundering Fang is right,” Princess Alpha Ember says, cheerfully. (After all, Plundering Fang has renewed her oaths of loyalty to the pack; feuds can shift and fade as circumstances necessitate. And they’ve both been Mosaic’s pet, anyhow.) “If we carry out the proper rituals in honor of Mars Wolfkeeper— the strike team, the flatbread for the auxiliaries, the line of communication— we will be as victorious as we were following Bella’s lead against the Crystal Knight.”

Quizzical looks. Princess Alpha Ember thinks back over what she’s said. Rituals? Flatbread? Or—

“…by which I mean Mosaic, our pack lar,” she smoothly corrects. “It is the prerogative of the divine to accumulate titles; this is one which she has recently revealed. Our Lady of the Bells. Sagetip, be sure to add some to her shrine. And all of you— she will look even more favorably on us if we use this name for her.

“Like when we fought the Crystal Knight, the forces of the Azura are only as strong as their leaders. If we can eliminate this Liquid Bronze, we clear yet another threat from our board. Quick, surgical, and under the Wolfkeeper’s auspices, under the blessing of Bella Victorious.

“But Summerkind— if we must meet them in the field, can we drown them? We’re still dredging out the lower levels; we have water and to spare. What are their mobility capabilities? Luring more void-horses to our side might allow us to strike from unexpected directions. That might also be worth consideration for Liquid Bronze’s drones; if we cannot strike at him directly, we can feint and make him commit his drones too early, let them all burn out fast— multiple feints, if necessary. We do not burn out. We are Ceron!

“Sagetip: analysis?”

[Filling Her Belly with Bella has allowed Ember to heal her Sense stat.]

“I thank you for your grace and generosity. Allow me a few minutes to consider; your blessing is great, and I would not waste it on an unwise answer.”

It is only by her leave that he has time to fill in the proper paperwork for a query. A few minutes was not unreasonable. If a goddess decided it was a time to be reasonable. If. In the rampant growth, he is careful not to let even a drop of blood land outside its appointed box.

“She of the Hunt, Sharpest Pen, Cleanest Letter. I have here one who is sworn to you in body, and now will be sworn to you in bone. Since leaving home, all I have learned is how much I don’t know. The tales do not convey the half of it. But as I consider it, the tales never say what to do if one should find themselves with an Assassin under their command either. They always start after that bit has already been decided on. Arrows nocked, destined to shatter to pieces when they inevitably strike their target.”

“Is that all an Assassin is? Is this what they are meant for, what they must always be?”

I want to throw it into a star.

Ah. This has.

She's not blushing.

What did she walk into, exactly?

She's not! Just because she, you know, walked in on--

What was Mosaic doing before--

She wants to throw it into a star she needs it and your fingers would be so deep inside yourself and is that what she was no it doesn't smell like it and--

Dyssia sits. Hovers. Curls around the table as if-- Carefully uncoils. Doesn't know what to do with her tail. It's a stupid tail, don't listen to it.

She's still clutching the sword, she realizes, with a start. White-knuckling it, now that she notices. Which means that Mosaic has noticed it. Because of course she has.

"If you want, I can recommend some juicier texts," she says, blurting it out like words loaded into a shotgun, and doesn't blush hard enough to turn purple.

"That is! I mean!"

She stares at the sword, and wills her fingers to unclench enough to lay it on the table between them. Neutral. Our sword. Definitely not something she's going to use on you, and not something you're going to destroy, because if you destroy it then she can't trade it for several billion lives and--

"I'm pretty sure this was a gun before. Do you remember it being a gun before? Also, I may have--We may need to un-un-reality the Synnefo."

Ember!

"Water would be a huge help against the Summerkind," Sagetip said thoughtfully. She was alit with a crimson light, flickering like bloody ink from her projector. "They are creatures of lightning reflexes and evasion; slowing them down would make them easier prey. We can easily take on more water and flood the entire ship. If they adapt then we can drain the ship and render their entire lifetime of military experience irrelevant. That's a good idea, Princess Alpha."

"But -" and here she falls deeper into the crimson, the buttons on her uniform gleaming silver even as she seems to bleed into the crimson light of her projector slide. "- I disagree on targeting Liquid Bronze. We don't have the numbers, don't have the assets, don't have the materiel. It would be expensive to create an opening like that with no guarantee of success once it is created. We don't know the full extent of the Biomancer-General's tricks, but we know he has guaranteed a form of immediate reincarnation for his Legions, and that was accomplished centuries ago. What if his research into that field has borne even more fruit? What if he has made himself immortal? He might be so directly, or perhaps he has done as some Biomancers and created clone backups. We are not up against an Azura Knight, we cannot fight as though we are."

This is her final challenge on this point; after this, she must agree with whatever course is decided by her Alpha so the pack might have clarity.

Dolce!

Artemis folds her newspaper - an an ancient thing of cheap paper and cheaper ink. She takes the time to smooth the crease and lay it across her knee as she sits, arms folded and legs crossed. A familiar shift of her head sends the shards of brown hair from her face.

"Once, a long time ago, there was a woman who wove the most splendid snares," said Artemis. "She had a genius for knots and was able to twist thread and twine into moments of suspended strangulation. She would walk through the woods weaving her traps and bought forth from them a bounty. I admired her. I admired her skill, her craft, her focus. So one day I decided to reward her - I sent into her snares a prince of rabbits, with a coat of silver and moonlight. She was delighted with her prize, ecstatic even. She called out my name in gratitude and joy."

Artemis flicked a smile, a cynical, distant thing, like a dart. "And then she sold the fur, purchased a house in town, lived comfortably for the rest of her days and never hunted again. I understood what I was in that moment, what the hunt was: necessity. Necessity alone. Nobody wants to crouch in the dark and mud with a wooden spear in trembling fingers. Nobody wants to learn the migration patterns of termites so they can be ready to eat them when they swarm. Nobody wants to work for endless hours to extract the means of survival from a uncaring forest. Once the concept of female property rights and divorce caught on in society recruitment for my wilderness cults dropped off a ledge. The second any individual or civilization can ditch me, they ditch me. Nobody wants to hunt."

She unfolded her newspaper again, straightening it out and looking up over the edge with silver-lined glasses. "But, sometimes things are still necessary. Even in the midst of all this plenty people find ways to make it so. So instead, I ask you a question: Is there something that is necessary for you to do?"

"No, thank you. If I was actually after 'juicy' I would frankly prefer to wind up a film. Text all by itself can't wind me up. I'm more concerned with..."

Bella trails off into silence, looking at the sword. Her eyes snap to the way it's held in Dyssia's hands, to the grip so tight it's cutting off blood to the fingers. She watches the blade tremble with an uncomfortable intensity on her face. She is stillness contrasted against all of Dyssia's nervous, excited shifting. It is startling when she suddenly moves her arms to lean her elbows on her desk and rest her chin atop her thumbs. Like watching Galatea suddenly come to life, if Pygmalion had been into stuck up, monster catgirls in weird suits.

She takes a very deep breath, and is slow to let it out as she watches the sword now resting between them. Then, as if changing her mind she swaps to a burst of sharp, rapid sniffs. She reacts with a scowl; Azura biology has always been a difficult nut for her to crack. The chemical codes of their bodies aren't quite what she's used to and even on Beri she spent single digit hours in the same room as any, so there wasn't a lot of opportunity to practice the craft. Dyssia mostly just gives off chemical odors, the sharpness of an oil paint and a general bite that is always hanging over her thanks to her innate excitement. Was she lying? Nervous? Just... her? The usual tells weren't giving her anything.

With a click of her tongue, Bella stands. She runs her fingertips along the edge of the blade.

"People don't appreciate," she murmurs, now brushing the tip with her thumb, "How twisted the god of love really is. Then again..."

Her fingers wrap around the hilt. She does not lift it, but simply squeezes tight as if holding hands with a dear friend for the first time in a while. Stands like this in silent stillness for an uncomfortable moment before shaking her head and sitting herself down again.

"...Never mind. That's not your problem. This, though? What the fuck. This sword? You're sure that gun became this sword? And now you can't find NBX-462?"

Bella frowns. Click click click, she taps the claws on her left hand against the one on her right.

"That doesn't make any sense. A sword, whatever. It's an esoteric. But this sword... no. Tell me what happened. Tell me everything. Don't leave out a single detail."

Dolce sits down.

He chooses his spot with care. Not so close to the goddess to imply improper closeness. Close enough to hear her every word, and reply without raising his voice. The correct distance of teacher, to student, of divine, to adherent, of huntress, to maiden. Crosses legs, crosses arms, as she does. All around them, the garden of Demeter grows, and he is always aware of it. Do not take his focus for blindness. But when the hunter has discerned a place of safety, they will only harm their chances with panicked second-guessing. As the garden parts around them, as a tranquil grove manifests where it should, he does not take his eyes off of her.

“In my rather limited view.” His voice is steady. His voice is professional. The huntress cannot allow emotion to overcome them. “I see a difference, between then and now. In the past, I see the necessity of the hunter, the need to survive on a harsh and unforgiving land. The hunter lives or dies by proper respect, discipline, and technique. Today, I see a powerful man, secure in his position and wanting for nothing, decide that there is a need to test his colleague’s security, as a joke. He grows a new person, makes this need their need, burdens them with curses that will destroy them in the end, but will also give them the means to see their job through before they are shattered.”

He says nothing more, because what more is there to say? What could a mortal do for the pain of a goddess? Let this sliver of understanding, and this respectful silence, be his offering. May it bring you some delight, Huntress. Even a little bit.

“There are many things that are necessary for me to do. It is necessary for me to act as a member of the Service, or else I will be dropped on a remote planet and it will take me ages to catch up with my wife and my loved ones. If they are not all killed first. It is necessary for me to find a way to stall Liquid Bronze and the Summerkind for at least a day. Something that 20022 can’t undo, so that Vesper can find a way to save us all. It is necessary for me to hide what I am doing from 20022, or else he will lock me in my room until his task is finished. It is necessary for me to find a refuge for the Royal Architect, or else either he or the other Sanalessa will die. And.” His ear flicks. The work continues behind them. “It is necessary for me to give Sanalessa a life. One not bound by curses. I know that, in the strictest definitions of necessity, my life would continue if I abandoned these final two tasks. But I think the sheep who survives by discarding her would not be me anymore.”

The ground here is unsteady. The student speaks his answer boldly.

“That is to say, it is necessary for Dolce to return to Vasilia.”

The Princess Alpha clenches her fists. It’s so easy! She can see it! All they would have to do is…

Put themselves in another trap. Dare the Fates again to allow them another fortunate escape. Put Bella in another demand to use her incredible strength to save the entire ship. To save her. To save the forgetful princess locked away somewhere inside of her.

“…thank you, Sagetip. Your wisdom is a credit to our pack. I will not be a fool who does not heed her own advisors. Let us prepare the ship for flooding chambers. If the Starsong were here… we’ll need to herd the associates into the central chambers of the ship and modulate the pipes for large-scale draining and flooding. Once we’re done, we’ll be able to drown the enemy no matter where they think themselves safe.”

She can smell salt. Somewhere in the back of her eyes, sunlight refracts on water. Glory to the Worldshaker, the king of the fathomless depths.

“…but we’ll still need to make sure we have the cavalry ready to draw off the drones, cut off Summerkind from Liquid Bronze, and run down any retreat. I will see to this personally.”

Does she trust her?

No, the mental censor insists, revise that sentence. Make it clearer.

Does she trust her, in both sense of she and both senses of her?

Would she trust her?

Because, on the one hand, right, Dyssia has done a lot of good for Mosaic, for the people of Bitemark. She's her sign from the stars, the comet that came right in the nick of time to get her people out.

And also, on the other hand, there's a scrap of fabric that's been carefully ironed in Dyssia's quarters, and a plover with tiger stripes that don't match its neighbors.

And also, third hand, sword, sold, in the process of being.

Which Mosaic doesn't know about. Yet.

Dyssia doesn't flinch at the sniffing, which she counts as a major triumph because--

It's like, maybe Mosaic's nose can't do all the things the Silver Divers say it can do. Given the things she hears, she'd be amazed if--

They say she can smell your thoughts.

Does she already know?

Should she trust her?

She doesn't flinch, no, but the hesitation is drawing the moment out longer and longer, and the longer it takes to respond the more it feels like she's winding up a lie.

Does Dyssia want Mosaic to trust her?

Yes, obviously yes. Wants in a way she'd have difficulty expressing to anybody else? Should probably interrogate that thought at a later time, after she gets out of this room.

Does she want it more than--

"The synnefo approached me," she admits. "Gun's worth more than the planet. He gets the gun, I get to redesignate the planet however I want."

Look at those claws. Tick, tick, tack.

… Look at that face. Dyssia's not good with faces, she'll be the first to admit it, but the words are sinking in.

"We'd gotten to the point of negotiation where the planet got freed, got given free access to technology and hyperlanes, and nobody else got to fuck with the planet in perpetuity when--"

She gestures at the sword on the table, but her eyes are on Mosaic.

"Well, now the gun's a sword, now the sword's in the space where the synnefo was, now there's bits of wool drifting down and Gemini bearing down on me and saying that's her sword, give it back and--

"And you know this sword, don't you? How do you know this sword? Why do you know it? Where d'you recognize it from? Mosaic, what's going on?"

Ember!

Within the light of Mars it is time to discuss maps and logistics.

Liquid Bronze's fleet is on an intercept course. Five Imperial-era battleships, one modern supercarrier, and a support fleet of fifty smaller Warspheres, cruisers and destroyers. A precise tally of their resources is irrelevant; in terms of force applied to this problem their numbers are effectively infinite. That is not to say they operate without constraints.

First and foremost, they are the hunters and have limited ability to force an engagement. This means that Liquid Bronze has split up his fleet into twenty different battlegroups. Any one battlegroup might make an even match for the Plousios, but the cold Martian logic implies that a fair fight will cause so much damage to both sides and attract sufficient notice that the rest of the force will be able to close in on the damaged survivor.
Secondly, they will be operating at the end of their supply tethers. Liquid Bronze, in a desire to settle the matter quickly, has only allotted space for two of his battlegroups to be resupplying at any given moment; that means the rest will be running lean. Any expenditures of exotic resources will be difficult to replenish in the field.
Finally, the political context is a limiting factor on Liquid Bronze's activities. That was how Dyssia's Pix originally escaped their own Decommissioning - the Biomancers do not have unlimited remit to disrupt inhabited and productive planets in their search for rogue agents, and the relationship with various sector governors may be strained. The death of the Crystal Knight is both a positive and negative in this regard; she was personally invested in your destruction, but she was also capable of reining in the Biomancer-General if he went too far.

The plan at the moment is to hide inside a star. This will not end the chase, but it will transition it into an advantageous defensive siege. This is a valuable delaying maneuver - Liquid Bronze's insufficiently supplied ships will not be able to spare the exotic cooling materials required to engage on anything but the worst terms. Given his impatience, it is predicted he will force an immediate engagement despite the risk, and a humiliating defeat will be valuable in destabilizing his position. And that is the only endgame that makes sense for this kind of hunt: against a foe with infinite resources it must become politically untenable to continue to the pursuit.

This means, then, engaging the battlegroup containing his supercarrier, The Cancellation of Florence Nightingale directly. Damage to that glorious ship on the field of battle would be an affront to Mars; if it is to fail, it must be at the hands of a nightmare beyond the normal context of the battlefield. And so it is that you have decided to call on your divine uncle Poseidon whose terrible hooves shake the stars themselves. For this kind of blessing a rare and treasured sacrifice must be prepared.

What do you have that is rare and treasured, Ember? (Hypothetically, would you describe yourself as rare and treasured?)

Dolce!

"Love, then?" said Artemis, again with a distant dagger-smile. "You think that's what it comes down to? I don't believe it. Not from you. You had love before this adventure began and you'll have love after it. Love isn't what sent you out your door. Love isn't what made you throw in with a renegade Princess and the God of the Dead. Love isn't what made you step into the Lethe, risking everything you ever were. No, Dolce, you give yourself too little credit - it's not anything as simple as love that drives you. Everything you are doing, every decision you've made, from the first day you left the comfort and safety of the Manor, was driven by something far deeper and more powerful than mere love. And though you don't want to give up on your love, on your softness, on your sense of morality - I think what you're really hoping is that it won't be necessary to do that."

Artemis leaned forwards. Demeter is in the background, smiling. To Demeter, Artemis is an ally. She doesn't see the knife even when it is this close.

"I can't promise that it won't be necessary to risk any or all of those things," said Artemis. "But what I can promise is that I will prevent you from sacrificing anything unnecessarily. If - and this is the only prayer I require - you tell me I'm right. You don't need to say what truly drives you," Demeter is tilling the soil, earth running through her fingers, searching for seeds. "You just need to tell me that you need to finish what you have started."

"Are you FU--"

Bella's hands unlock as she slams them down into the desk.

"Do you just not res..."

Her claws scratch terrifying and deep grooves into the surface. But she stops, looking almost like she's choking on the reaction. This, Bella. This is why the Anemoi lost to the Plosious in the beginning, the middle, and the end. Because every single time you had the chance to be more competent, more perfect, more of a leader than the disorganized bleeding heart morons...

She sighs. She'd spent it screaming and posturing until everybody knew how big and important she was. And after that the moment for action had already slammed shut in her face. Did Hera know, then? She warned Mosaic about-- fuck. Bella's eyes squeeze shut, and she pinches her nose between two fingers, too late noticing she's done it hard enough to draw blood. She'd never imagined how difficult it would be to hold two sets of memories in her brain at the same time. How the shit did Vesper not just shrivel up and die?

"Sorry." she says through a very long breath. Her arms sink toward her lap and a meditative posture. Inhale, exhale, she pushes the tension out through her lungs. As much as she can manage, at any rate.

"...Sorry." she says again.

She sniffs the air again and holds only her golden eye open to follow Dyssia's movements. The smells may be a shipwreck so far as her training could carry her but that posture she knows all too well. That's the same squirming and twisting that Mynx was always full of whenever she felt guilty about a deception. That expression, the constant movement of the thick Azura tail, all of it tracked one to one with a rippling of scales and a coolness of touch.

Ok then. If getting to be Mosaic got to be good for one thing, let it be that she could manage to not strangle the ones who trusted her in a moment of vulnerability. It's not what a Praetor would do. But what good had being a Praetor ever done for her? She would never discard the title, no, but she could still be more.

"Let's say that what happened..." her voice is slow and cautious, as if she didn't trust herself not to burst into flames and blood at any second, "Is a lesson you needed to learn. And leave that part where it is. I don't--"

She rolls her eyes, already wincing. She manages to turn that motion into an abrupt lean onto one hand, suddenly in informal posture with her fist on her cheek. She groans and stands up, instead, so she can at least turn all of the energy she's trying to bury into pacing, instead. Her tail keeps flicking as she walks: the warning gesture for her pounce. But Dyssia never recognizes it for what it is, and Bella never follows through.

"No, I get it. I do. It's a planet, right? A whole ass civilization getting plucked apart like cheap toys. You don't have to sell me on it. But fuck me, I-- ghhhhhn. No, I was right the first time, there's no point in going over this. You tried to do what you thought was right. I... accept that. But your deal is off. I'm not inclined to go looking for NBX-462 at all at this point, but even if we find him I'm not letting you trade this for anything."

The red eye, this time. It used to be a different color, Dyssia, do you remember that? But you broke the promise of the ribbon and it changed its color. Now 'Mosaic' looks permanently angry, or at best like she has a headache, and uncomfortable every time she opens her mouth. She doesn't look directly at you, or at anything, but keeps turning her head as if she thinks there's something for her to find inside the room with both of you if she just walks to the right spot.

"It's pointless to argue with me, you know. That sword isn't yours to give away for any price. It's not Belja-- fuckdamn it. It's not Gemini's either. It's not even mine. It's... Hera help me, how do I explain this? Do me a favor and get comfy, please. Sit, or, float around or... I don't know, pace around with me, whatever works. This is gonna take a minute."

For an uncomfortable moment, Bella goes statue still and quiet again. Her eyes are only on the gouges in her desk. She shakes her head, and all at once the tension seems to flee her body. Her shoulders relax and her tail drifts down until it's hovering around knee height. She manages to look directly who'd already once managed to free her from a prison she'd been locked inside of, made of ignorance and doubt. Arguably, Dyssia's even freed her twice. If you wanna call it that.

She shrugs.

"In the first place, you need to understand. There is a land of the dead. You're gonna have to take my word on this; I was born there."

“We are not doing an Andromeda,” Ember repeats, arms folded, projecting as much Authority as she can. Plundering Fang, idea rejected, scowls at her. “Not even the Fisher’s Andromeda; that backfires as often as it works. Instead, we are going to jettison all of our loot from—“

“83.7%.”

Ember stops and looks to Sagetip, who pushes her glasses up her nose.

“The pack, across its history, has achieved an 83.7% success rate whenever we have had to use an Andromeda. Traditionally, the Alpha volunteers for the role. We have traditional regalia we synthesize for the event. And as long as the Alpha puts all of her faith and trust in Poseidon, making sure that there’s absolutely no way for her to influence the outcome… 83.7%. Damage to our vessel is inevitable, but our monster will arrive, usually with ravenous harbingers proceeding it. The time is auspicious, the circumstances are amenable… this is not only the favorable action, it is the prescribed action.”

“But I’m, I’m not rare or treasured,” the Princess Alpha stammers, touched with Mortification.

“Princess Alpha,” Sagetip says, with the greatest of patience, “our lar, Mosaicbella, clearly finds you to be both. Today, she was observed squeezing your hand and telling you to ‘knock us all dead’ at this very meeting, before kissing you for an indeterminate amount of time. Also today, this morning. she just so happened to have made more tea than she needed to drink, an obvious ploy to give you a gift and to spend time with you. Yesterday,” she continues, smiling in the way she does when she senses the kill.

"Don’t let’s talk about yesterday,” the Princess Alpha squeaks.

“So what’s it going to be?” Plundering Fang cracks her knuckles. “Are you going to be the Alpha or not, Little Ember?”

Both of her challengers look at her, watching for weakness. For selfishness. For failure in the eyes of the pack. But Ember’s not looking at either of them; she’s looking to Bella, unseen but not unfelt.

“…tell me about the regalia.”

You know, maybe this is why Artemis chose to have this conversation sitting down. Was that how it always happened, when learning from the gods? The stories, well, now that he thinks about it, they leave details like that to the listener. What does it matter whether the Knight and the god were conversing on a leisurely stroll, sitting in a grove, or lying back and gazing at the distant stars? The Knight spoke with a god, divine wisdom was granted, and that was that. Sitting felt a lot more convenient, in hindsight. Less limbs to lose track of in a critical moment.

The Lethe…it makes sense. Even as it sounds impossible. Him? The little chef from Beri? Take on a quest from Hades, pledge his allegiance to royalty, cross the great river of death? This is a joke, right? You’ve gone and picked one the least suitable souls on all of Beri for the most dangerous quest imaginable. Except. Bits and pieces of the past gone missing. Misplacing the unforgettable. Two goddesses to vouch for it.

“I do not suppose…no, there is no reason to expect I would get it all back now, is there? ‘What one god has done, no other may undo’ and all that.” And think about that for a moment. A god saw fit to carve up the memories of Dolce of Beri. He wraps a shudder in his wool and refuses to let it go. Stillness. He is stillness.

Around them, Demeter goes about her work. The grove is undisturbed.

Folded arms unfurl to folded hands. “First and Greatest of Huntresses. I have left all I had behind in Beri, though I did not know I was doing so at the time. My house is no more. I am barred by forces far stronger than me from returning to my family. I am in hostile territory that seeks to swallow me whole.” His nose wrinkles. Words are weighed, carefully. “It is the second time I have left home behind. I set out the second time as I did in the first; in pursuit. If all obstacles disappeared tomorrow, and I could return to my cafe with no trouble at all, I would be returning empty-handed.” Of what, he couldn’t say exactly. Thank goodness she didn’t ask him to put that part into words. “I do not know if it is something I long for within my heart, or that building a home without it is impossible. But I suspect that if I were to return, I would leave a third time before long.”

Dolce, from somewhere, bows his head to Artemis.

“Which is all to say: It is also necessary for me to finish what I have started.”

It's not possible to occupy two spaces at the same time, but Dyssia is doing her best.

(Or. You know. Yeah, it totally is, actually. She's done it, and found herself quite charming in the brief window she had to get to know herself.. The entire point of the sword--gun?--swordgun on the table is to, you know, summon your underworld clone and holy shit she's from the underworld.)

Up to this point, it would have been all too easy to pick up the signs--the twitching cheeks, the flaring hood, the fidgeting tail, the flicks between Mosaic and the vent in the corner. Would it be possible to get to that vent before--no, no, silly idea, she's seen those claws shred through steel. Collapsing the vent behind her would just mean that Mosaic has time to work up a lather before she gets Dyssia.

Now, though, the clenching and unclenching fingers, the--is she vibrating?--the held breath, as if any opening will be the start of the explosion, speaks of a very different direction she wants to go.

She's from the underworld! Not just from, not just a visitor, born there!

Claws! Red eyes! Danger! Clearly upset, at her, in a way that will result--will not result, probably?--in violence. Upset in a way that shows iron mastery of will in not lashing out, and which should not be tested by crowding! Historically bad results from crowding, especially with claws!

But she can answer so many questions and hell where does she even start and--

She's gonna rub this alllll in the face of the Oracle. See? See? It does exist! It's not a myth! You have way too many references to Hades for it to be a myth, you can't just erase a figure of that kind from history and say it doesn't exist, and she'll tell you all of that just as soon as--

As she goes home.

Which she can't.

Because she sacrificed that for success in saving--

And, you know, totally worth it, but also--

An entire planet, Mosaic, and are you absolutely--no, no, you're right, silly question but if we could get the gun back could we trade that and--

Don't ask to have the logic explained, don't ask to have it explained--

Deep breath. Realize the breath is still being held. Exhale, then deep breath. Don't let the pleading edge into your voice.

"Tell. Me. Everything. Don't leave out a single detail."