Isty's [i]alive.[/i]

A little knot of tension unclenches, ever so slightly. She's alive! She's alive, and winning, and oh god she's so beautiful Alexa might cry.

(Note to self. Tear ducts. If they survive this, invest in tear ducts.)

She's winning. Alexa can still see the knife--that impossible dagger--sticking from the Nemean's chest. Had seen it happen even when she was there, when she was ready and guarding, when the Nemean was there armored with the power of the gods. Wondered whether she'd find another impossible dagger buried in another chest when she wasn't there--

But no! Every thrust, parried and riposted. Every dodge performed with the speed and grace of a gymnast. Movements and techniques that Alexa had taught, but taken, blended, shifted, adapted for a scythe, made Isty's own and done at a speed to boggle the mind. There's a selfish little part of her that wants to just watch. To sit back and marvel and hold her at the end, coax her back and tell her just how incredibly [i]proud[/i] of her she is!

But there are [i]two[/i] stars in the engine room.

The Kaeri have been thorough in their trap. All plovers have been taken, cannibalized, used in the battle. There isn't any heavy machinery to be used, and judging by the way the core sizzles and hisses, there's not nearly enough time to go back to the main hall and retrieve one.

And here, and now, even at the entrance to the room, the heat is blinding. She eyes the core, and gingerly runs a finger across the lingering burnt umber patch down one side of her body. She can still feel the sensation of up becoming down, the lurch of down getting faster, the quiet acceptance of the burning glow above her. 

Is it surprising to find that she doesn't want to die? In that classroom, facing Molech, hearing him intone the new shape of her life, she thought for sure that that must be the only way this could end. Die quick in battle, or die slowly. And good gravy, this must be the quickest way possible to break herself.

Cut her siblings out from him….

She could do it, you know. Virtually all of Molech's forces are here. The Tides, the Coherents, select Hermetics, the Alcedi… all on a freshly repaired albeit battle-beaten and presently exploding ship of the Armada.  And Molech doesn't have the seal to summon her to his side. Repair the core and she becomes the leader who saved the day. Pick a direction, any direction, and that's most of Molech's forces gone. She doesn't know he's captured or dead or lost. That's time that she can talk to them, get to know them, convince them that Molech doesn't care for them. Convince them that life is better when you decide what it's for.

None of that makes it any easier, though. She knows the pain waiting for her, and her feet don't want to cooperate--they hold, leaden, to the floor, struggle desperately to stay rooted. The closer she gets, the more her eyes squeeze shut against the light, until she's navigating more by hot and cold than by sight. Even before she makes contact, she can feel old wounds opening as brass starts to melt and run.

Think of why you're doing this. Think of meals shared with friends. Think of finally being able to appreciate Dolce's delicate oolong. Think of understanding smiles from Ramses. Isty's laughter. Think of old camaraderie with the Alcedi of old. Vasilia's face as she waves a drink mid story. Redana's quiet understanding

More than that though, think of you! Think of all the things you've wanted to do, to be! Think of what you couldn't be before! Think of a life with no command seals to summon you, no irresistable commands forcing you into a box! Think of the relationships you couldn't have, how you agonized over inflicting yourself on anybody not strong enough to defend themselves! Think of defining yourself, of deciding, of learning who you are!

Take that feeling! Bind it, knot it to your center, make your insides burn as bright as the core outside!

Contact. A shrieking of nerves.

And [i]push![/i]