Sometimes, experience is a terrible thing.

See those mangled ruins surrounded by feathers? In her mind's eye, she can reconstruct it--piece together how the Kaeri struggled in Epistia's jaws. See the tracks in the ground where the Kaeri scrabbled, struggled, see where the frantic wingbeats scattered dust. See, there, the deeper footsteps, where Epistia reared back, shook until bones shattered, and then shook some more for the joy of it.

There: blood, a rapidly cooling brown stain, standing stark against the sand. Carotid, based on the Lantern head nearby. They'd all drawn back when Epistia landed among them, bit the leader's throat out, and tossed the body aside. But that was their mistake--that was movement, that was the chase, that was [i]fun[/i], that was the [i]hunt.[/i] None of them get more than a hundred yards.

She's felt that power before. Known what it's like to have a god coursing through your veins, to be able to move with a certainty that's not your own. She wants to believe it's Ares doing the laughing, Ares treating this like a game. It's Ares, throwing a body, and then bowling through a phalanx with the excitement of the chase. It's Ares, drinking in the heady aroma of fear like the finest Ambrosia. It's Ares, Ares, always Ares doing this.

But it's not, is it?

Alexa's victims were no less bloody than Epistia's, to be sure. Her battlefields were left strewn with just as many corpses. But she never [i]enjoyed[/i] it. There was an enemy, an objective, and punishment waiting unless she got the job done. There was the satisfaction of a clean kill, maybe. Of thrust, parry, riposte, all played out with units.

She'd seen it, in that first dance. Seen Isty, seen that ferocity, and thought, "there's a girl who can take care of herself." There's someone strong enough that I don't need to worry about her when I'm away. I don't need to worry about coming back to an empty library, because anybody who tries that is going to lose whatever hands they use to do it. Isty, who helped see herself as more than an expendable tool. Isty, who had the cutest laugh. Isty, who glares every time she suspects she's not being taken entirely seriously.

Epistia, who shows no pity for those she cuts down. Epistia, who is so young, so inexperienced. Epistia, sitting alone in a cafeteria, surrounded by the friends of those she hurt, declaring that they are the ones in the wrong. Epistia, so faithful in knowing that the people she hurts [i]are[/i] people, but with not enough understanding of what that [i]means.[/i]

That they're precious. That they have wants and needs. That it's a tragedy when even one is cut short, no matter how much glory and respect it wins you. That ending them--even if they're enemies--is a terrible thing.

Could Alexa have been fine with that, once upon a time? Put that away in her head, blinded herself to it, so long as Isty came home at the end of the day? Sacrificed everybody else, damned everybody else, so long as the person she cared for was safe?

It's a pointless question to ask, because no matter what past Alexa might or might not have done, present Alexa needs to see that Epistia is taken down. 

Taken down. Gods above. 

She barely has time to think the thought before she's passed to a Kaeri.

"Beljani!"

Dammit, she. There's no time to think, no time to assemble the words, to get it right.

"… Please."

There are too many words to be said. Please survive, please come back alive. Please, let there be more opportunities for me to get to know you better, since I was too inside my own head and up my own ass to do it before. Please, don't kill her. Please, I don't deserve to ask you this, but please. Please, please, please. 

"I need to make this right. Please, don't die."