"Choose me, Rosanna. You can't just let them all die."

His eyes watched her, imploring and determined. Did he really mean it? How could he be so confident?

But then, Elliot had always been confident. He was always pushing her to act, to help; pushing her beyond what she thought she was capable of. He was so honest, so righteous…he made her ashamed of her own uncertainties. She had nothing like his righteous zeal.

Were it not for that righteous fervor and sense of justice, they would not be here now.

She looked from him to the simple villagers, scared and shaking. They had done nothing wrong. They had merely sought the impossible, and their courage would be rewarded with death. There was only the tiniest glimmer of hope in their eyes, overwhelmingly drowned by something else that chilled her to see: resignation. They were defeated already.

She knew what they saw. She was a princess. When was the last time royalty had helped its people? They had no reason to trust her, no faith in her name…they only had the brazen audacity to hope.

In that moment, she understood Elliot's conviction.

"You know it has to be me, Anna," he whispered.

She lifted her eyes to his again. He nodded ever so subtly, both demanding and encouraging her answer. If she spared him over the villagers, he would never look at her the same way. She would be a killer of innocents, no better than Logan.

It took every ounce of her being not to collapse into a crumpled pile of misery on the cold tile, but she refused to let Logan see her pain. She was not a child. Fighting back the tears that already blurred her vision, she raised a trembling hand and pointed to Elliot.

Only Elliot seemed unsurprised. There was a collective from the shocked and relieved villagers, and even Logan arched a delicate eyebrow. But his discomposure was fleeting; his face was instantly a cool mask of indifference again. He waved an idle hand to the soldiers holding Elliot in place, who seized his arms to take him away. He didn't fight them.

"Wait." Her voice was a choked sob, drowned by the commotion of the gathered assembly. "Logan, stop."

Logan was already gone. She pushed through the crowd to Elliot, who was being peacefully marched to the side door. She reached for him, all her royal pride abandoned as she realized the full scope of what she had done. She seized his hands, but his fingers slipped through hers. He said nothing, only smiled back at her as he was pulled in one direction. Walter had reached Anna, and he held her back from following. She blinked, and Elliot was gone.

Her memory began to twist. The throne room faded around her, warping into the sinister torture that had been haunting her for weeks. She clung to the dream anyway, clung to Elliot just a little longer, and ignored the pain that threatened to swallow her soul.

The ghost of his voice floated back to her, calling her name through the unforgiving door that the soldiers had slammed in her face. Still he tried to comfort her, to reassure her…

Or did he condemn her? Hadn't she loved him? How could she have killed him?

"Anna!"

The tears flowed freely down her cheeks, pooling into the pillow that she refused to acknowledge. She wasn't asleep. She wasn't.

Elliot…His arms wrapped around her, or his hand encompassing hers. Here, she could still let herself feel his phantom touch.

She dared to let herself imagine how the day might have gone. They could have spent a leisurely day in the gardens, oblivious to the sad events of the day. The villagers' deaths would have been nothing but another tally in the book of Logan's corruption, and she and Elliot would have commiserated together. She never would have had to sacrifice him for their sakes.

But the people needed her. She knew that now.

"Princess Rosanna?"

Why couldn't she save him? Why were their lives more important than his? Why—

"Princess!"

The dream was snatched from her, and Elliot with it. Dark eyes faded to blue, and brown hair drained to a filthy blond. Ben Finn knelt over her, a concerned expression twisting his usually lighthearted face. She chased away the image of Elliot, but his face still haunted the space just behind her eyelids. Reality was back, and all its unpleasant truths.

She pushed herself up and scooted back on her bedroll, away from Ben. If he saw the tears, he didn't say anything. He became himself again, his expression detached and familiar.

"You were thrashing a bit, Princess. Nightmares?"

She could only nod numbly. The thing that haunted her sleep—that torturous memory from hell itself—was far worse than a nightmare, but she doubted the captain was interested in her troubles. Ben was all laughter and easy smiles, and her misfortunes were too heavy to unload onto her new friend and ally just yet.

"No shame in that," he assured her. "I find myself dreamin' about hollow men most every night now. I used to sleep with a gun in my hand until I nearly took off the Major's head when he came to wake me for watch duty. It took weeks before his moustache was the right length again."

Anna could only imagine what kinds of words the Major must have had for Ben, and the sincere smile came more easily to her lips that she would have expected. Satisfied with her response, Ben stood and offered her his hand up.

The smell of the sewers was mercifully muted, but she still gave a wide berth to the trapdoor leading into it. Page's house was in a forgotten section of the city, a building that Reaver Industries hadn't bothered to tear down. He had merely crowded it with his factories, which made it inaccessible except through the sewers. There was nothing through the windows but grimy light and bleak buildings, but it was ideal for Page's band of rebels.

Even so, the house itself was mainly used for meetings and guests. Most of Page's crew—herself included—slept more directly in the sewers. They were accustomed to the smell and most of their sensitivities were already destroyed by long days of factory work. Anna felt as though she was already desensitized to the worse of it, but Walter and Ben made no attempt to hide their distaste for the sewers. They shared the house between themselves.

Walter's knapsack was still on his bedroll, but he wasn't around.

"Breakfast," Ben told her, interpreting her gaze. "Nothing gets you ready for the day like a bowl of soggy grey mush in the middle of a slimy sewer. Walter sent me to check up on you and take you down if you're feeling up to it, but I can let you rest a little longer, if you'd like…"
"No, I'm fine." She winced as she spoke. She tested her face gingerly and found a bruise along the line of her jaw. Reaver's party had not been kind to her. She could already feel a twinge in her leg when she stepped, but the light here was too gloomy to fully examine the extent of her injuries. She fell into step beside Ben, inviting him to lead the way. He wasn't going to argue.

"Right, then. Let's get you to Walter before he has my head for dragging my feet."