It's hard not to feel that this is her fault.

She told them to choose for themselves what they want to be. To seek within themselves, as she had, what they wanted to be for, to choose what purpose they'd pursue. And truth be told, every time she sees one dressed in a red robe, or guffawing amongst the Coherent, or mingling with the other groups, it sends a little twinge of joy in her. They listened! They're learning! They're growing! Even the partings, for all the sadness, share a note of bittersweetness as well. They're seeding themselves into the cosmos.

But fuck, they're so few.

She told herself that getting to know them--becoming familiar, learning names, pastimes, wants, dreams, would set herself up for more hurt down the line. And she wasn't wrong, either--she looks out at the grouped Alcedi in the meeting and can name every gap where there should be a person. If she'd been faster, or cleverer, or more responsible!--

It's useless to stay awake and ask the questions, replay the memories, tell yourself that if you'd been smarter, or better, or something, maybe you could have saved a few more lives. It's not your job to save them--they aren't your soldiers, you aren't their commander, there's no phantom Molech waiting in the wings to reprimand you for your failures. They are their own people, they owe you no loyalty.

But they're your sisters and brothers, and every empty spot gapes with those not there. And so, there's you, and the bed at night, and feeling vaguely guilty about not wanting to ask how you could do better.

Vaguely, she notices the question hanging in the air, and struggles to replay the last few seconds of conversation in her head.  

"I'm sorry, Lacedo. I remember names and faces and friends, yes. But you've grown your own culture in the past two hundred years. I can tell what I remember, yes, but it's not what the Alcedi put together for themselves."