It would be untrue to say that the world slows to a crawl. Time has already been so kind once, even if inadvertently, and he will not extend such mercy again. 

Would it be worth it, taking another huff of the cigarette, if only to taste it a second time? To feel, once more, the cease of the incessant, to calm the hive of bees in her head, to slow, everything, down, until it's manageable? It's a wistful thought, right? One thought at a time, one thing at a time, never to be had again--

And yet, as the castle rumbles over the rise, shedding wings and rivets and trailing a plume of flaming paper walls, Dyssia swears she could pick every leaf of ash individually from the air, trace the projectory of every nail and screw and brick as it spirals down, pick out every pore on the stretched corpse riding its throne.

She doesn't want to run, she's surprised to find. Her fingers clench and unclench, grasping too-full bundles of Dekal's clothing, and wishing something more solid were in them. Something with heft, something that would whistle through the air and mash, pulp, thud into anything in its path.

"How could you?"

She should run. She should take Dekal over her shoulder, and sprint away, and hope that Hermes runs out of fingers.

She [i]shouldn't,[i] you know, lay Dekal down like [i]this,[/i] and sprint towards the corpse empress like [i]this,[/i] because closing the gap like that would be silly if you really thought about it for more than two seconds in a row.

"Put aside, for a moment, all that you've done to your daughters! Put aside the cruelty of whatever the fuck this [i]test[/i] is, and the cruelty of what you've done to Dekal! How could you?!"

Anger and frustration pour down her cheeks. And yes, hatred, the internal censor admits after a moment of reflection. 

How could you? How could you embrace this system?

Hermes! Trickster! Traveler! Ready with a coin, or a double entendre, god of wayfarers and merchants, of commerce and visitation! God of all the gifts that could be used to turn the world kinder, god of all the gifts she could have had, back when she had yearned of the Out There!

God, now, of all those things turned towards war, and empire, and stagnation! Of onyx diamonds, floating through space, full of servitors who will never wish to leave their infrastructure! 

"Is this your enlightenment? Is there no other way for us to live except to be at odds with our creators?! To accept, unquestioningly, what some asshole decides is your role in life?"

She passes Aphrodite, and oooooh you would not [i]credit[/i] how hard it is not to smack the cigarette out of his hands again. Have some self-respect, will you? Here, let me help!

And maybe that's what does it?

It's as she's reaching out to flick it again that she sees it. 

Sees the nicotine baked under the fingernails, the tar in his gums, eyes yellowed.

Sees the way he cradles it, sees the hunger in his eyes, see the way he drags on it. Sees the addiction clutched in Aphrodite's hand not as an affection, but as--

Wouldn't it be worth it? Just the one hit, just this once, just for this one reason, because she needs it. 

Of course the system is broken. How else could it be, when this is its creator? When all the gods spring from this? 

She turns from the cigarette, and stares once more at the Empress looming closer in her sights.

How else could [i]you[/i] be? How else could you respond to a system that you thought you set up, that keeps going wrong, that killed you until the only way you can manifest is in the company of the ones who turn you to war?

How else could you have treated Dekal? How else, when even your father is unable to escape his own affliction? How else, when he split himself off into more addiction?

She's still crying, but the hatred is gone, and even most of the anger is melting away. Not gone, not entirely, never gone, but banked like a fire that must last the night. 

"Hermes! I'm coming to help you, if it's the last thing you do!"