"Redana..."

[i]Stop talking about me![/i]

Her voice cuts off like it's been guillotined, and she's left mouthing like a fish. She tries! Oh, believe her, she tries. But the words that are so stridently clear in her head refuse to come out. Redana can make her own decisions, yes! Of course she can! But only when they're decisions that are only Redana's! When she's acting as princess and heir, her decisions affect more than just herself! It's not as simple as 'let Redana decide how she wants to dress' when she's dragging people behind her! Let Redana decide, but let [i]her[/i] decide as well! Redana knows what's best for Redana, but shouldn't everybody else get a say if what's best for Redana is not what's best for them?

All of this, she does not say. And she does not say it while leveling a hurt look at her princess. Of course Redana wouldn't allow her to speak, not after Alexa criticized her in front of subordinates. That's normal. That's what she was taught by Molech. Seen and not heard, the perfect idol, the perfect background and unspoken threat for any who dare approach the Warsage.

So why does it sting so more right now?

[quote]"Fine, yeah. Alexa, do as Bella says and shut this idiot up and maybe I'll arrange for you to come back with us. I'll be right back, make sure this is resolved by the time I'm back."[/quote]

Naturally, it's Mynx who breaks the spell and leaves Alexa gaping between the two cats. Can. Can she do that? For a panicked second she imagines it.

It'd be painfully easy, wouldn't it? Vasilia is unorthodox, certainly, and Alexa wouldn't care to bet on just how many tricks she has up her sleeve, but Vasilia isn't expecting it from her. One stone fist to the back of the head. Bam! Instant nap attack. She'd be fine, and they'd be gone before anybody ever came for them. 

Galnius would probably even back her play. Could you imagine the glory to be had? One of six to recruit the Ceronians and rescue the Princess? How many legends could that spawn, how many songs and sagas? The Empress would probably grant a hyperpalace for each of them!

Yes, it'd be eminently possible, even easy! 

So why does the thought fill her with revulsion? Of thoughts of an empty canteen, with no cat captain gleefully tossing back Sherman's old paint stripper formula? Of calm nights bereft of the old, precious china set and small cabinet of dried leaves? Of calm, peaceful walks around the dockyard with nobody beside her? Of...

She's not going to say "of being a thing," because what else would she be? She's a creation. A designed product. It's her destiny to be what somebody else tells her to be.

And so, when the order comes to step up, to fight on command, she shrinks. She flinches. She takes a step back. 

It's not much. But it's clear immediately that if it's fight or flight, she's not fighting.