[i]Dimly, some part of her lamented her lack of foresight. She ought to have brought paper and pen. She could have written an apology to the serv- to the slaves. They would have to clean up after her, long after she was gone. They’d be forced to restore Zeus’ temple to its former glory. If it were even possible. No amount of polishing could repair the gashes in the floor. By the time anyone came to check, the blood would be long dried. Miserable to scrub out, that. Hard...hard to erase...oh Clarissa....

She stopped. Her glaive fell to the ground, digging a new scratch into the once-perfect mirror floor.

She’d learned a precious lesson, today. After everything, after a lifetime, there were yet parts of Clarissa she hadn’t seen. The truth coursed through her veins, staining memories until she could recognize them no longer, but it had not stopped her. She’d entered the temple, sure of herself, sure of her reasons, and in the face of [b]her[/b] they’d all turned to doubt and darkness, but that had not stopped her. The last plea. A blade drawn. Gasping, as glaive found flesh. The sounds clawed into her mind, but even they had not stopped her.

Vasilia looked out from the temple of Zeus. She saw the stairs she had yet to descend. She heard the distant hail of SP fire, and the roar of plovers that heralded the Starsong’s doom. She smelled the iron bite of her heart’s blood, and knew the offering was not enough, and she had no breath to scream, and she could stand no longer.

But neither could she fall.

She felt, more than saw Zeus, the prickling on her fur that kept her too alive to die just yet. Somehow, holding no grudge for the desecration of her temple. Or maybe this was her idea of reparation. Reminding her that her cause was no less just, no less necessary for her shattered heart. And that to stop before it was finished would mean it all was nothing more than the trash their world was built upon. Years of blind folly, and moments of sacrifice alike. All coming to nothing.

So, she rose. To join battle, at the opportune moment. For a last, great treachery, against the few souls of Lakkos she had yet to deceive. To the Starsong, she would give life from certain death. To herself?

Dreams of burnt ash, and a heart of cold iron.[/i]

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

Vasilia would not see the autosurgeon for some time.

When the Alced came, they beheld a conquering champion, faithful to her wing and flush with the rightful spoils of victory, and they rejoiced to serve under one who held such honor.

When the Coherents came, they beheld a simple exercise in logic. Where there ought to have been many Coherents, there were now none. Of the enemy, they counted a dozen. Of the dozen, one was untouched, ten showed signs of a scuffle, and the one currently giving them orders held weapons of Zeus and more injuries than they could count. To the credit of Hermes, they quickly solved the puzzle, and gave her their effusive obedience.

Through the pleas of her crew and her husband, Vasilia would not see the autosurgeon for some time. Not until her work was finished, and finished right.