What is this feeling? Of unbearable tightness, like everything is squeezed too tight in her chest? She can't move, can't breathe, because to do so must surely shatter the illusion.

Because that's what it is. It has to be. She... She [i]saw[/i] the wreckage! Felt the heat! Knew that the planet had fallen! She watched the ships burn, named the crewmembers on them, did the rites of the dead, for none remained on the planet to see Hades placated! This can be nothing but the cruelest joke to play on her.

And yet.

And yet, there it sits, as if war had never come.

She dares to raise a hand to the glass, as if by reaching out, she could grasp the planet, draw it close. Traces the lines of the continents, as familiar as the day she read them on the map. Tries, in vain, to see if she can't spot one of the armadas. It's nonsense, she knows. Who could have survived?

And yet, she finds herself smiling.

It cannot be. It's impossible. Nothing short of the direct intervention of the gods themselves could bring this about. A terraforming effort on this scale, a [i]restoration[/i] like this! She shudders to think what the cost must have been. What world did Nero sacrifice to the gods to bring this about? What dread bargain the price for Alced?

And yet, there it is.

And here she is, miles away. She aches to be off, to see the surface. Is it possible that some of of her comrades yet live? That she could find them, reunite with them, share stories with them, reassure each other that yes, you made it, you survived! Share drinks, live, reminisce of those who did not!

She presses almost flat against the glass, her stare hungry for what she cannot have.

"Did..." She gulps, musters the soft words back into line, and turns a soft gaze on Epistia. "Did your mother ever talk? About this, I mean. About Alced."