Isty must think her so weak.

Look at her, clinging to Isty like a shipwreck survivor to a liferaft. Didn't take more than scratches in that entire fight--no gashes, no missing limbs, nothing even that won't be fixed with a rasp and some clay. Look at the mighty warrior, faint after the battle! See the Pallas, clinging to her like a teddy bear! This is she who would court a Princess, showing her martial prowess?

But damn her eyes, she [i]needs[/i] to have that beacon. That anchor, that sign that she hasn't entirely fucked up. She didn't hare off for sex, ignore her duty, fail to find out the plan, get treated like the rube she is! Needs to press her face against that shoulder, feel that press of thin fur, that warmth against her stone, and hope she isn't entirely ruined.

Hah. Needs to talk to Isty about Ares. What has she done? You know, not too much, just betrayed everything she was raised to believe, touched that live-wire. And worst of all, can't bring herself to regret it. Wants it again, at the same time as she hates herself for wanting it.

***

Alexa returns to a ship full of ghosts.

That's Domingo, the old artillery master! But-- no, no, the beak is right, but the coloration is subtly different. Spots in the wrong places, tattoos missing. A son? Grandson, maybe? And she'd swear up and down that the one carrying the crates into the cargo hold is the spitting image of--but no. No, if it's her old friend Agarra, there's no recognition in their eyes.

That's the pattern, every time. Alexa starts. A comrade! She takes a few steps, and details filter in. Different styles, different feathers, different voices, and everywhere, that blank stare that says "I don't know you."

It's.

It's probably for the best.