Alexa stares at Aphrodite as if he'd just suggested a small act of genocide and blurts out, "That is not true!"

Or rather, that's what she tries to say. But somehow the words refuse to come out, stick in her throat, steal her breath away with the enormity of the lie.

Because that's been the image haunting her dreams since Molech, isn't it? To get away. To beg, plead, and wheedle with Hades for something to conceal her from the gods, stow aboard a ship, and sail till she finds a place where "molech," "empire," and "pallas rex" are meaningless nonsense sounds. Somewhere she can be--well, be someone else. Not the Pallas, maybe not even Alexa. To reinvent herself, be free of the past.

It's always somewhere by the mountains in her imagination. A place with a chill glacier stream tumbling down the rocks, feeding across the hills and down towards the town. A farming community perhaps, surrounded by rolling fields and shadowed by a nearby forest. She keeps chickens on the edge of town, gets dirt under her fingernails. Tells dirty jokes to the other old women, trades gossip about how Samantha needs to work up the courage to ask Azucar out, does she really think nobody can tell, and aren't the two girls so cute together? A good match, meant to be, really. Mockingly wags a finger at the little ones, tells them there'll be no pie for them later if they don't stop running through her rhubarb now--because, of course, this hypothetical version of her is also an expert cook--and affectionately shakes her head as the rumpus careens further down the lane.

An impossible vision, of course. Even if she managed to somehow outbid the wealth of empire with the gods, even if she'd tracked down and stolen the seal, she knew that any attempt to escape could only end poorly for anyone left behind--comrades, lovers, anyone she knew was a potential collateral in her escape. Anybody Molech knew about could be threatened to keep her in line. And when she'd thought and plotted how to take Minerva with her--

Well. 

The dreams never stopped, really, when she helped Nero come to power. She had her niche, she had her peace, and she'd have to be incredibly selfish to want more. So shut up, dreams, you're being inconvenient. Quiet down, bottle yourselves up, and let her have this.

But now, they blossom anew in her mind, painting an image in vivid oranges and browns. A larger house than before, with more stories and more room. Smoke rises from the chimney, steam laden with smells wafts from the kitchen. This is the house of a family, not just a spinster hermit, full of stories and memories. That would be Isty's room--and oh, what a twinge of betrayal that it [i]is[/i] Isty, and not Minerva--and she could have that study downstairs…

She gulps, and forces out, "I. I [i]do[/i] want that. Want to run and be selfish."

She winces at the burst of muffled anger from inside Ramses' tentacles. Yikes. Yeah, that's gonna be a conversation, isn't it?

But the Alced! And the planet! The engines whine, and she can hear it echoed in the back of her throat. She hasn't seen them in decades! She can't see them driven back to--back to what she and Molech did to them! Can't just stand by and let it happen for--for the sake of a quickie!

The door in her dream house swings wide, and a sheep emerges, carrying a steaming pile of food. He turns and says something through the doorway, though she can't hear what. He's not supposed to be here--not here, not wherever this planet might be--he has his own life, his own endings to pursue. But she lets him draw her inside, past the small shelves of dogeared books and various souvenir knickknacks, to the dining room and its simple wooden table.

It's larger than it should be for just two people. Vasilia sits at one end, gesticulating wildly at Redana. The two look up, and happily accept ladlefuls of noodles before continuing their debate. Isty buries her knife in the cutting board, and comes to join. Even Galnius is here!

She swallows the urge to reach out, to pull someone--any of them, all of them--into her arms and squeeze for all she's worth.

"I can't," she groans, and she can feel the words carving a hollow into her chest. "Cannot run. You may be correct--it has been long since I saw the Alced, and not once have I reached out--but there are others I care for. They--"

Are the first to care for her without knowing what she was? Tell stories together? Value her as more than just a fighting machine? Might--and it hurts to think, in case she's wrong--might just be the ones to smash the seal for good? 

"Surely, the love of friends is just as important?"