Balmas

Breathless Dead

Madness, Madness, Madness.

Stop! Don't touch her! There's no time for this! They're in battle, with no quiet waiting room, no platter of chips, no time for recovery!

No, faster! Pick her off her feet, rush her forwards, muss her clothes, just so long as she's in that sarcophagus faster! She can't afford not to be at her best!

Knock her out! Don't let her feel this! Think of the pain she was spared before, how much it will hurt!

Don't you dare give her any sedative! She'll never forgive herself if she forgets a single moment of this. Shatter her skull if you have to, but she wants to capture every moment, remember this forever!

She hears the prayers, the chants, as if she were miles underwater and they on the surface. It's just her, a reassuring touch from Ramses, and the smell of cigars.

That beautiful bastard. He even managed to find a gold that matches her new filigree.

The Hermetic pronounces the final syllable, attendants raise the arms to her and--

***

Madness, Madness, Madness.

They're nothing like her old ones. Athena had four arms, and therefore the Pallas Rex had four arms. Athena uses her arms to wage war, and therefore the Pallas Rex would use hers to wage war. A reduced version, one that can be held on a leash, conjured and bound.

These are not the arms of a warrior, with hands to circle and weave, clench Aegis and spear, be the unbreakable wall upon which enemies break and the point of the invincible spear. These are not the arms of a princess, of a symbol, of one who must be seen always and never heard, pristine and perfect.

Alexa raises one arm, admires the way the light scatters through the sapphires embedded in the knuckles, reads the prayers and dedications engraved around the biceps. They're works of art, treasures to match or exceed the most precious crown of the greatest emperor.

But above and exceeding all of that, they're hers. No, not just hers--her. These are the arms of a girl who would spend time with friends. Who does not need to fear. Of a girl who would get dirt under her fingernails. Would discover, would explore. Would laugh, and love, and live, all without fear of loss.

Imperfect. Beautiful.
Her.

***

Madness, Madness, Madness.

The greatest crime imaginable is that there is not enough time for her to hug everyone who deserves it. Still, she passes herself from one coherent and attendant to the next like an overly enthusiastic python, squeezing and hugging with all the strength in her new arms, saving an extra special squeeze for Rams--

A horribly short, gutteral scream. She turns, sees the crimson comet crater against the dust, and she's running.

But something's wrong. Her legs won't work right--is it the arms? Is their weight throwing off her balance? She can see her goal, is staring at it like staring will make the body at its center less mangled, but her legs insist on carving the sand, bringing her sideways, make her look at--

She tried, you know. Tried to ignore him. Had been steadfastly looking away from the start of the battle from the looming form at the top of the pyramid.

But of course, he'd been lost, kidnapped. Of course she must return to his side.

Her feet don't stop pounding, but faces flare in her mind.

A desperate laugh burbles somewhere in her throat, and her feet dig deeper into the dust, carve longer strides, until she's at the base of the pyramid, staring upwards at the man who stole her life from her.

"Father Molech! As you commanded, I have led the Alcedi, and returned to your side when you were lost!"

Is there something there, Molech, or Liu Ban, or however you want to call yourself, that gives you pause? An edge to the voice, a hint that something is wrong, as your daughter starts to march up the steps of the pyramid?

God, she hopes so.

"I do hope you are pleased with my service, Father Molech! You look to be in far better health than when last I saw you!"

Breathless Dead

To think that all this time, she thought she knew what a phalanx was.

She darts from the phalanx! A step! A kick, sequins swirling around her! One ankle, hard as marble, falling like a hammer! An opening!

Oh, to be sure, she has fought in them! Felt the press of bodies, sheltered beneath her comrades' shields. Felt the invincibility of the press, the knowledge that, just for one second, all fought as one. But always…

She turns, and one Coherent offers a hand, a step, and she's above the press, dancing across shoulders to where she can most directly strike down, direct, engage

To fight for Molech was to be a pawn. Each phalanx moved as neatly across the battlefield as boxes on a map. Molech had decided what your place was, and if that meant that for the glory of Molech, a phalanx had to be sacrificed? Phalanxes advanced, moved, died, all huddled together, knowing that to break formation--to run, to flee--was to die. Ahead, glory and possible death. But behind? Decimatio, execution, slavery, or worse. Always, what was behind was worse. The phalanx held together through fear, through Molech's determination, through his knowledge of what you should be.

The formation parts just long enough for her to bull through a tree, and then engulfs her again, surging through the gap she's created.

The Coherents are chaos. Molech would sneer at the variable kit, at the way each insists of thinking of themselves as individuals, with different ways of fighting. And yet, it works. They shift and heave and pulse, each moving to support the other, each knowing the others well enough to understand, without speaking, how to help.

And by themselves, they'd be easy prey, hounded and harried by the Kaeri, pinched against the wall of thorns and flesh until the esoterics. But with her… She's not their leader. She would not dream to command them. But every time the Kaeri surge, again and again, she's there to open the path, or make an opportunity to be exploited, again and again, closer and closer to the esoterics…

A phalanx, but one that allows for each person to be their own without compromising its strength. What a concept.

6,1, +3. 10 on Overcome.

Breathless Dead

"Take it off."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm blind, not deaf, and I can hear the screams, take it--"

The blindfold whips off, blinding light sears into her eyes, and "Put it back on" dies on her lips, unspoken

She's going to see this tonight, she knows. In the quiet hours, when the ship sleeps, with only the dull rumble of the engine for company, these faces will be branded across her mind as brightly as right now.

It's unholy. Obscene. She's seen battlefields strewn with the dead, counted corpses, relied on the fugue of post-battle exhaustion to keep her from recognizing which were hers. But they always--always--got tended to. They burned, or were buried, or were committed to Poseidon, but always, Hades claimed them.

A hundred thousand eyes pierce her. She does not know them, but everywhere, sightless eyes stare at her, accuse her. She did not do this, did not plant the seeds, she does not know you, stop looking at her--

She can feel the aide's nervous gaze, even without looking. Feel her watching her, getting quietly more tense, watching her freeze. Damn you! Damn you for listening to her!

And damn her own eyes, for serving her! Because she had the blindfold removed for a reason! Everywhere, screams, chaos! The red glow of Ares approaching! Disaster, and only--

A whiff of cigar smoke lingers in the air. Acrid. Piercing. Sinus-clearing in its intensity. She staggers, and stares again.

Everywhere she looks, the unburied, the corrupted, the defiled! Stolen from life, stolen from death! Stolen from Hades and their quiet rest! The pitiful dead, victims as much as any of them!

They stare at her, yes! Pleading! Begging! Give us rest! Lay us down, free us from these shells, say the rites of Hades!

She takes one step, then a second, and then she's running, bounding and galloping across the desert to lead her troops. Saving the tides is hopeless--useful only as a battering ram, and now facing a wall too big to clear, but there are lives to save. Eyes on the Kaeri--see how they move, where they'll strike. They're against the anvil, and only avoiding the hammer's blows will save them.

Dimly, she's aware that she's singing. An old tune, from a sergeant who was old even before she was shaped. A hymn, a dirge, that beats with each thunderous footfall, to the god of the Dead.

Let her see this right, Hades. She does not know the dead, but this atrocity cannot stand. Only let them live, Hades, and all of these shall be given the peace they have not known for centuries.

Breathless Dead

How she hates the blindfold.

It wasn't so bad in the bridge. But here, as she hears conversations stop and breaths catch in throats! If it weren't for safety's sake--if it weren't for Molech's injunction!--she could look around. Could see whose words falter, whose eyes can't help but trace her as she goes!

And if she's moving her hips a bit more than usual, so the gown has a chance to move, catch the light, listening for the sharp inhales of breath when a hint of thigh flashes through the slit up the side, well...

How she'd gasped, when she'd first seen it! Admired the way each movement sent ripples and shimmers across the fabric! Each motion is a wave of sequins and silvered threads, each hem a crest of seafoam against the lapis and cerulean of the dress! Blushed and stammered when she saw herself in the mirror! How she'd sat, and wondered, and marveled, and again decided that she needs tear ducts! What a world, where she can have things as nice as this!

She shivers, and can't resist, even now, giving a little twirl of joy.

(Behind her, a Coherent chokes on her rations.)

Her back still aches, just a little. The Coherents had listened to her embarrassed description, looked at each other, and nodded. Then one had picked up their chisel, and another had heated up a crucible. The stylized dove's wings down her back, though, are worth the pain. The gold filigree gleams between the panels of the backless dress, a delicate gold pattern flying over a sea of blue.

Wings, for freedom. A dove, for Aphrodite. A reminder for herself once she makes it out of this.

She wears the sea on her front, the future on her back, and around her neck, the present: a silver chain, each link a symbol of those around her. A scarf. A tail. A tentacle. A scale. Reminders of friends, comrades, past and present. They sit against her, constantly close to her heart, a reminder of how and why and for whom.

For love. For her friends. And for herself.

And thus attired, Alexa goes to battle.

Breathless Dead

Alexa does not need to see the god of the dead appear to feel the chill in the air, hear the gasp of oaths, feel the press of bodies drawing away from the command table. Is uncomfortably aware, suddenly, of how uneven the bench is, and isn't that strange? Is suddenly glad that she doesn't have hands right now, cannot run her fingers along the bench, feel out the shapes?

Nor does she need to see Jil's face to hear the determination that lives there. What would Alexa do for a leader that had freed her from Molech? No, she doesn't need to answer that, because she already knows: what she's doing right now, for Redana. How far will the Alcedi go for her?

(Oh dear, best unpack that thought later on.)

And she doesn't need to see Mynx's face to know that she's not enough here. Oh, she's welcome, yes. But her help, her acknowledgement, isn't filling the void.

The air clangs with the sudden silence, and she doesn't need to see to feel the pressure of eyes on her.

"Bella has..." She frowns with the weight of thought. "Your forgiveness, Jil, but she has hurt all of us. Nearly killed Mynx once. Nearly killed Vasilia twice.

"I know that 'she could have been worse' is cold comfort in the face of that. Wow, she should receive forgiveness for not murdering all of us in cold blood. But she had three adepts. Three assassins, pardon my saying so, to use. And she didn't. She's held off, held back, hasn't killed us.

"And..."

Alexa sighs.

"I do not want to see her hurt. She's hurt us, yes. But I still find it hard to divorce her now from the friend she was on Tellus.

"Surely, we can afford to show her some mercy, if the chance arises?"

Breathless Dead

The worst thing about being blindfolded on top of armless is knowing a friend is in need, and being able to do nothing about it. She can hear Mynx, but not see her, not go to her, not find her in the tight, overcrowded quarters of the bridge. Can't risk stumbling and knocking the blindfold off, or tripping against the corner where she knows the palanquin is. She fidgets against the chair, stares around sightlessly as if she could magically triangulate to Mynx without knocking anything important over.

But what could be more important right now? She can hear everything that Mynx isn't saying--the pain, the bitterness, of knowing just how important it is that they get the ship back. No, not the ship, the person inside the ship. Of hearing how much people are stressing over someone else. The other person who grew up with you, who cared for you. You know, the important one.

She doesn't realize how tense she's gotten--how her shoulders clench, her teeth grind, her breath halts in her chest--until a hand gently lands on her shoulder and it's all she can do not to pop out of her chair like an unwinding spring. The hand draws away, startled, but comes back insistently. No fur, no peach fuzz, so not Isty. Mechanical slithering from below. Ramses, then.

She takes a breath, swallows, and manages to bite out a hushed, "Mynx needs--Help me to her. Please." Anything to help tell Mynx that no, you're not alone, you're not invisible, I see you, I hear you, you're important, too.

Breathless Dead

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?"

Breathless Dead

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.

Breathless Dead

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."

Breathless Dead

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."