[b]Ember...[/b] gets back up, of course. All that lying down would do would be to attempt another lie. And lies are being stripped away and consumed here The last scraps, the remnants, of her disguise: she tears them away, and now there is just [i]her[/i], drawing on the strength of Ceron in order to be able to stand. Standing for Beri, for the Silver Divers, and for Bella who is Mosaic who is Beloved. Why be concerned with propriety here? She's often had to discard it for one reason or another in order to serve her pack. And Bella is part of the pack, whether she accepts it or not. She is someone that Ember will always fight for, even if her ability to fight is pathetic and cowardly and relies on deception. Ember closes her eyes. They will not help her here. She balls her fists and waits for the next Plover head. A dance, like they never had the chance to have on Beri. Ah, what a delight... [hr] [b]Skotia...[/b] is always and ever doomed. The shape of death has always been with him. It is inevitable to his existence in a way that no other Redana confronts. She is always defiant, always has death at her back, but it is his lot to be consumed. To be devoured. To be a flimsy mask used up. Always and ever. "I always loved you," he manages. It hurts to breathe. He cannot even see her, with the pained sweat in his eyes. His head hangs like that of the condemned criminal. This is his lot, and it has always been his lot: the tragic romance of someone whose death cannot be ignored, only temporarily staved off. And this is beautiful, too: a mirror reflecting the glory of Bella Aurelia. A prince who can be shattered for his sins. "I only wanted to be yours..." [hr] [b]Redana...[/b] does not get up. You missed it. She did it over and over again, and the Praetorian Guard was obliging enough to bring her back down to the floor over and over again. To her place. Where she belongs. Groveling, burnt, punished. Shown the folly of thinking that a plucky attitude and a refusal to give up would lead to anything but pain. There is no question of whether she will accept the pill. She has lost. She has discovered the place where there is no more strength, only a tear-stained face and horrible, choking sniffles, her tears having run dry. She cannot resist being made into a trophy that can be broken forever and ever, if that is what this glorious empress desires. She cannot resist being broken into a new shape. A better shape. She is the second-youngest, after all, and perhaps the most immature. Perhaps... [hr] [b]Dany...[/b] takes the hand. She is not past tears. They are wet and sticky on her cheeks. The thought of taking up the sword cannot be seriously bounded within her thoughts; she would vomit. The promise of violence is horror; the promise of inevitable retribution to anyone who stands in the way of this monster is terror. She can't be expected to fix this. This. Any of this. She's too small, too stupid, too disappointing. Unable to do anything useful at all. Unworthy of anything in this vast, cavernous, shattered mansion. Deep down, here, she's always known that. She'd forgotten by the time she was big enough to run for the stars, but deep down, this is all she is. Crying. Alone. Afraid. Reaching out for comfort. Undeserving of comfort. Unworthy.