A/N: The RL monster keeps getting in the way of things, so a big thank you to all those who persevere with my erratic updates. And an especially big thank you to those who've taken the time out to comment! You are stars!

On a somewhat related note, I've had quite a few people ask me if/when Shepard will appear. This is a work tagged Shiara, after all. The truth of the matter is that Shepard has what I call plot gravity, in that it's very hard to tell a story she appears in, with characters she's strongly associated with, without having her become a focus, or even the focus of the story. While, yes, this is a Shiara fic, this is not a Shepard story.

Finally, this is probably a good point to remind everyone that there are content advisories for this fic.

Benezia

Death. All around, death. Everything, death. The death of hope. The death of dreams. The death of future. No time to run. No time to scream. No time to pray. Just people, burning. Cities, burning. Worlds, burning. The flash of light comes, and you die. The machines come, and we all die.

Better to die. Better to burn. Better than this.

Things crawling beneath skin, twistingburningtearing. Needles, spikes, hooks driven through tender flesh. Blinded, deafened, deadened; new implants grating in raw, open wounds. Bones broken, reshaped, repurposed. Hands become claws, dark with blood of kith and kin. Feet crush skulls underfoot. And the voices. Always the voices.

Scream. Scream all you wish, but the voices will not care. Scream as we screamed. Die as we died.

Or surrender…

Benezia's eyes shot open and the scream died, stillborn, on her lips, as awareness of who and where she was filtered into her consciousness. Thessia. The ship. The cabin. Aethyta-

Aethyta was gone, when she sat up to look for her, but her presence lingered nonetheless. The scent of her was all around, lingering in the sheets and blankets of the cot, even as her words from the night before hung heavy in the still air.

Did you love me?

It wasn't enough. It had never been enough, not truly. But for the longest of times they had both managed to pretended it was not so.

Benezia fell back against the cot, curling up on her side and hugging one of the pillows to her chest as she tried to control her breathing, calm her racing heart until the trembling stopped and the nausea faded. The vision was slightly different each time but always horrific: distorted, fleeting impressions of endless slaughter, and a torrent of rage and despair and other, entirely alien sensations that made her head ache anew. It was one of Saren's 'gifts' to her: the dying scream of an obliterated race.

How close they had all come to joining them. How close had she-

Breath by breath and beat by beat she regained some mastery of her body, unclenching fists and un-tensing muscles until she lay flat on her back once more, the pillow still clasped to her chest. Each new measured inhalation brought more of Aethyta to her, until it almost seemed she was there, in the same way Benezia had sometimes woken to find herself on Aethyta's side of their bed, whenever she was away, searching for her in the night.

What of you? she had asked. And the answer had not been no.

But that was not to be dwelt upon. Down that path madness - more madness - lay. And it would not be right, even were that not mad, to toy with Aethyta's affections so. The thing was long done. The words, long unsaid, had finally been spoken aloud. Let it end there, as it must.

She lay for a time in the darkness, tempted, so tempted, to simply stay, eyes closed, and see if sleep would find her once more. Today would be worse than those that had come before, she was certain. More arrivals, drawn by Liara's polemics of the past few days. The hundreds who had come over the last few days would only be the start. More reporters would come with them, certainly, drawn by the continuing fallout from said polemics and the promise of more, and even by the news of Benezia's survival. Some interested in her, she knew, would not be deterred by her refusal to speak to them.

Just thinking about all of it only deepened the exhaustion that seemed sunk deep into her very bones, the dread that seized her chest. The cot was soft enough, Aethyta's lingering presence familiar and comforting in a way it should not have been. Not after so long.

But she could not hide behind these walls; someone would seek her out, be it her family or her foes. Sleep would provide no respite either, exposing her to the monsters and memories that prowled her dreams. And her daughter and her- and Aethyta did not need for her to be any more of a burden than she was already. They deserved better of her. Their people deserved better of her, no matter how she herself felt. She had to keep that at the forefront of her mind. Service was an honour and a responsibility that went beyond mere personal desires. She would be worse than useless, staying here. Worthless. A drain on stretched resources. Unacceptable when she had a duty.

Benezia rose carefully, taking care not to jar her head and turn the lingering ache there into something worse, and dressed, noting the accumulated stains and places where the material was starting to fray from use. Beggar's clothes. But they were all beggars here, were they not? Scavenging for what little sustenance and comfort could be salvaged from the wreckage of what had come before.

When she emerged, cautiously, from the cabin, she was greeted by the sounds of argument from the cargo bay, two well-loved voices trying to shout at each other without actually shouting.

"What were you thinking? Were you even thinking?"

"You weren't there! She was calling your mother a traitor and a fucking killer and worse!"

"I didn't need to be there! She could have called her a… a... varren's leavings for all I care. You simply cannot go around beating up reporters!"

"Well, she ambushed me! What was I supposed to do? Ignore her?"

"Yes! Ignore her or walk away or send her to me! Goddess, Ce'Molla is infamous for being deliberately antagonistic, especially when she thinks people are hiding things from her. Losing your temper on camera is exactly what she wanted. People say all kinds of stupid things when they're angry. I'm going to have to give her who knows what concessions now to stop her from going public with the footage. I'll probably have to give her an exclusive interview. "

" Nobody told me there were reporters in the damn camp! I wouldn't know her from Queen Quirezia!"

"You're a thousand years old! You're supposed to exercise your judgement. Goddess, even Grunt knows not to hit reporters, and he's a two-year-old krogan!" A fist hit a table, seemingly for emphasis. "You played right into her hands. Maybe if you hadn't been crest-deep in a bottle-"

It was strange, in a way, like listening to all the arguments they'd never had, she and Aethyta. How many times had Benezia wanted to shout and rage at her bondmate for losing her self-control at inopportune moments? But she'd bite her tongue, because Aethyta was trying to do right by their people and, Goddess help her, there were days and days when Benezia struggled to see the good in those she debated, let alone the merit in their arguments. How many concessions had Benezia made on Aethyta's behalf over the years, how many egos, soothed, and how many lawsuits headed off or settled quietly, out of court? And she'd never said a word, because she had thought she'd understood and was prepared to accept what it meant to bring Aethyta into her heart, her home and her life, and wouldn't change her for all the credits on Illium.

Love was supposed to have been enough.

"Hey. my daughter died, alright? My daughter." The low growl in Aethyta's voice warned of an impending explosion. "Your sister. Don't you fucking-"

Benezia cleared her throat.

Liara was the first to spot her, over Aethyta's shoulder, but Aethyta quickly turned to follow their daughter's gaze. Both of them froze, an almost identical guilty wince crossing their faces, in as much as that was possible for Liara, as she approached to a more reasonable speaking distance.

Liara looked tired and irritated and pale behind her wounds, the terrible scarring on her arm and neck barred by the white tank top she often wore to bed. Aethtya fared little better, her shoulders slumping as Benezia watched, her eyes sullen, dull and lined with fatigue. Had she lain awake as Benezia had, long into the night, thinking back over everything they ever were to each other? Imagining what it would have been like if Aethyta had come home early that day, as she sometimes did, and caught Benezia dithering and fighting tears on the threshold to their home, trying to find the courage to take that final step and end their life together?

The way Aethyta's eyes met hers and immediately dropped suggested that she had.

"If it would assist, I am willing to speak with the reporter."

The reaction to her suggestion was instant and, to her secret, shameful relief, to the negative.

"Nezzy, I dunno if that's really the best-"

"Mother, I appreciate the suggestion but-"

Aethyta and Liara spoke at once, and stopped just the same way, glancing over at her and then back at each other.

"No, no, look: you were right kid," Aethtya said after a moment, not looking away from Liara. "Yesterday was a pretty shit day all told but, well, I'm big enough and ugly enough to admit that I fucked up. It's my mess. I'll fix it."

Liara sighed and sat down behind her desk heavily enough that her chair slid backwards several inches.

"Again, I appreciate the offer, father, but I do not think that would be wise."

"What, do you think I'm going to go in there with guns blazing?" Aethyta bristled. "I can do subtle. I've charmed the pants off harder cases than her."

"I've no doubt," Liara said dryly, and Benezia did not miss the way her daughter's eye darted over towards her, nor the slightly pained expression that flickered across her face. "But putting that aside, I suspect that I am the one Ce'Molla's really interested in anyway. If she or any other reporters attempt to speak with either of you again, please refer them to Belia or me."

"Who?"

"My press secretary."

Liara sighed, as if the very notion pained her. Benezia was fairly certain it did.

"I would like you, though, to keep an eye on our krogan guests today," Liara told Aethyta. "The situation on Tuchanka is growing increasingly unstable and Wrex needs Aralakh Company back. They're supposed to be shipping out this evening, so we can expect them all back in camp by sometime this afternoon. I'd prefer to avoid any further 'incidents' or misunderstandings."

"Sure, I'll see if I can stop 'em from eating anyone," Aethtya said with a roll of her eyes. "Anything else? While I'm taking orders?"

"No. Not really."

The awkward silence that was starting to become an unfortunate hallmark of so many of Benezia's conversations fell once more, ending only when Aethyta cleared her throat, glancing over at Benezia briefly again.

"Well, guess I'd better get to it then. You, uh, you both know where to find me if you need me."

Benezia turned to watch her leave, feeling an odd, twisting tug at her heart as she did so. With it came a fleeting, wild urge to follow after her, to take her hand, to pull her into a tight embrace and never let her go.

She had always thought, back when she had regularly thought of such things, that the day Aethyta chose to press the issue of their severed bonding would be full of anger and accusations, leaving her feeling drained and quite probably guilty but, equally, somehow lighter. Freed from the imaginary burden of silence and secrecy. She had envisioned a confrontation at her home, and feared one online or at a Forum or other such public venue where the potential for embarrassment and unwelcome questions would be at its greatest. Aethyta would have little to lose should she choose to cause a public scene.

But the confrontation had never come. And, last night, there was no shouting. Surprisingly little anger. Just quiet words in the dark, words that left her feeling not at all relieved but, rather, strangely bereft, as if she were standing on the threshold of their home all over again, trying to summon the courage to take the first – and final – step.

"I don't think that I handled that as well as I could have," Liara admitted once the airlock had cycled and they were alone. She pressed a hand to the side of her crest above her ear, and the pressure point there. "Was she like that when you were together?"

Aethyta's temper was infamous in certain circles. The members of High Command and proprietors of many a bar or club certainly had been given cause to doubt her restraint on more than one occasion. But Benezia, herself, had never had reason to harbour such doubts herself.

Until the other night. Hand, rough on her shoulders. Breath, hot on her face. Talons piercing the heavy fabric of her dress, drawing pinpricks of blood. Saren's voice, raise on anger-

No. No, let it lie. Aethyta was not Saren. Saren was dead. Focus on this moment in time. On the question she had been asked.

The one sure-fire way to set Aethyta off, and often explosively, was to threaten or speak ill of those she considered to be under her protection. Or her family.

"Mother?" Liara prompted.

She was calling your mother a traitor and a fucking killer and worse.

Even if the words spoken were true.

"Did we argue? A t times." she conceded. "We differed on many matters."

"Was that why-"

"No questions today, please, Liara," she said, taking the seat across from her daughter. "'leastways, not about that. How bad is the fallout?"

Liara frowned, but allowed the subject change.

"Containable, I think," she said. "I haven't really dealt with Ce'Molla before but I have something she wants-"

"I have no doubt that you can handle the reporter," Benezia interrupted with a sentiment that she still found exceedingly odd to be applying to her daughter. "I was referring to the larger situation."

"Oh."

Liara's crestfallen expression told Benezia all that she needed to know.

"I see."

With some apparent effort, Liara managed to find a smile that Benezia suspected she was meant to find reassuring.

"Honestly, it's not nearly as bad as it could have been - at least where you're concerned," Liara said. "There's some discussion about whether or not you were indoctrinated, but Shepard's involvement seems to have helped sway initial opinion. In any case, everyone found," the barest of pauses, "...what happened to be very hard to believe at the time, so there are those who are willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. And I think people are looking for 'positive' stories right now, what with everything that's happened. There's too much ill news as it is without adding more. I can put together the news reports for you, if you like. There aren't as many as I had expected, but then the Reapers made a point of destroying our communications infrastructure before targeting anything else. Word will take time to truly spread."

Benezia needed to know what was being said about her, and how it was being said, if she were to have any hope of dealing with those that would come today or tomorrow, or the next in search of her.

"Please. And where you are concerned..?"

Liara's smile, forced as it was, vanished, and she abruptly focused her attention on her monitors. The fingers of her good hand moved over the interface swiftly; those that remained on her bad, with clumsy precision.

"Well," she said slowly, "the matriarchs of Cyone want my head on a platter and, frankly, I'm half-tempted to give it to them. It's all such a mess, Mother.

"About a quarter of our surviving military seems to think I'm preparing to stage some kind of a coup. Matriarch Vibianna in Cianna is furious and telling everyone who will listen about how I rudely refused her offer of guidance because I'm more interested in grandstanding than helping people. Since she is effectively leading our largest remaining city on Thessia, people are listening.

"Meanwhile, Hinenia, Melganra and Lith are threatening to secede unless they get help immediately - which I'm sure would only improve their situations. What's left of Illium is on the brink of starvation while crops on Nicacal rot due to lack of workers capable of repairing the automated systems and the resources to do it with. Oh, and the surviving settlements on Trategos are fighting each other for fuel. They all want me to step in somehow, but anything I do to help one group will only infuriate another. And that's just the colonies I know about. And the other races-"

She stopped abruptly, looking Benezia over with a frown she couldn't quite mask. Not for the first time that morning, Benezia became painfully aware of how worn and ragged she looked, how she'd let herself fade away to near nothing.

Worthless. The voice, rich and bass, dripped with contempt. A beggar. A broken thing. The outside finally matches what's within.

"-and it's nothing you really need to worry about just now. I'll manage. We'll manage."

The 'somehow' at the end of that sentence went unspoken, but was there nonetheless.

"Liara-"

"Mother?"

"I..."

A hundred words hung on the tip of Benezia's tongue: words of advice, words of comfort, even words of commiseration. She had been a young priestess once, the youngest in twenty generations to don the markings and take up the raiment of T'Al'Etah, and all that entailed. The death of her mentor some decades before had left no one ready nor, perhaps, capable of coaching her through the moments of doubt, frustration and even sheer terror that arose from becoming one of the de facto heads of an ancient faith. She had later used the experience of those days to counsel others, from Councillors to CEOs to celebrities, who had risen too high, too quickly for their own comfort. The art of juggling duty, expectation and perception with personal desires, of managing factions and fickle followers, of judging the potential value of allies and the likely enmity of possible foes, and how to do it all while remaining true to yourself and your values - they were things that could be taught, though, of course, like all else, such skills took time to master.

It was all there, waiting to be said. The distilled wisdom from centuries of surviving, thriving within, even steering the machinations of the followers of two faiths, of muddying her hands with petty politics and base celebrity, of taking unilateral action and building the broadest consensus for change within the highest and lowest levels of their peoples' governments.

She's right not to involve you. What can you possibly offer her? Everyone who ever truly listened to you is dead. Did you enjoy our suffering so much that you want it for Liara too?

The second voice, the one that sounded so much like dear Umbri that her heart broke, was right. It was those same centuries of experience that had led her to inflict Saren upon the galaxy, and her belief in her own supposed 'wisdom' that had brought her here, to ruin. Liara needed her mistakes and her misjudgements as little as she needed her weakness.

Instead, she sighed and said:

"You know that I am proud of you, regardless of what happens."

Even that did not have reassuring effect she had hoped. Liara forced another weak smile.

"I know. Thank you. I just hope you'll still feel that way by the time this is all done."

"Why wouldn't I?"

Benezia felt a frown crease her own brow, and Liara turned her attention back to her terminals rather than meet her concerned gaze.

"Oh, it's just paranoia talking, I think," she said. "There are so many things that can go wrong."

It was a lie. Not a bad one, certainly, perhaps one even worryingly well-told, but Liara was her daughter, and Benezia had known her from the moment their minds had first touched. But as to what, exactly she was lying about, Benezia could not immediately say, and she doubted her daughter would be drawn on the matter.

"Can I help you in any way?" she asked, taking care to be gentle.

'Can you help?' The bass voice again, mocking. So like Sovereign. She wished it would stop. How could you possibly help? Does she need someone to betray your people again?

She had been foolish to make the offer. But there was a pause in activity while Liara appeared to consider it. After a moment, she rummaged around on her desk and pulled up a diplomatic datapad, thumbing through it quickly.

"Actually, yes. The humans want a formal alliance with us outside of the remit of the Council. It all seems fine to me, but I'm not terribly familiar with treaty language and I may be missing things. Palla thinks much the same. If you could look it over and tell me what you think, that would be extremely useful."

"Of course."

Analysis was probably something that she could still do, something she had done numerous times before. Indeed, had she not been involved, from the outset, on the treaties and agreements that ended what the war between the turians and the humans ? The ones that later brought the humans into civilised galactic society?

A lifetime ago, perhaps, but so was everything else.

"You understand that there is typically a great deal of back and forth with such proposals" Benezia continued. "While I suppose that, given the circumstances, some abbreviation of the process would not be unreasonable, you should not put your name and thumb to anything in haste, and especially not on the behalf of others."

She glanced again at the pad in her daughter's hand, then back up at her face, saw the determination there, and hesitated.

"By rights," she continued carefully, "something of that magnitude should be put to the people."

"There isn't time for a broad consultation," Liara said curtly, "and no means to call a vote besides. We still don't have coms with half of the planet. We'll be sure to limit the applicable duration on anything to a few years at most. When Admiral Hackett and I have come to an agreement about everything else, I'll put it to the camp. That will have to do for now."

"Just as you say."

Liara's remaining eye narrowed.

"I'm not doing this because I want to, you know," she said, sudden defensiveness in every line of her body.

"I know."

"Or because I like 'grandstanding'."

Even after all that had happened, her Liara could not possibly have changed that much. Grandstanding about Protheans, perhaps, in a half-empty lecture hall, but not about politics.

"I would be greatly surprised if you did." And then, to forestall what would certainly have been another unneeded protest, she added: "Do what you think must be done, Liara. I will help you as best I can."

"I... appreciate that," Liara replied, ruffled feathers settling back into place. "The humans aren't expecting a reply until they're ready to leave, so that gives us another day or so to work out our response. I'll include a copy of the proposal along with some news reports for you to look over. And, well..."

"Yes?"

"I wasn't sure whether I should include them or not, but there is some mail for you as well. Letters. I haven't had a chance to read through them myself yet, but I did screen them for-"

For once since her awakening, Benezia's mind worked quickly.

"You are reading my mail?" she asked, more than a touch incredulously.

"Well, yes, but-"

"And was the letter from Melania addressed to Aethyta or you?"

"Aethyta, but I thought-"

"Are you reading everyone's mail?"

"Not everyone's," Liara said, matching incredulity with bemusement. "Just the ones my VI flags as being of interest. Most of the time it just skims them and produces a report. You know, data mining."

"Liara T'Soni!" she exclaimed, appalled. "What in the Goddesses' good name possessed you to do such a thing? Did I not teach you to be respectful of others' privacy?"

She paused as a sudden, angry suspicion seized her.

Shepard.

"Is spying something else that you learned from this Shepard of yours?"

"What? No! Shepard wouldn't-" Liara replied, stopped abruptly, and then settled herself back down into what Benezia was coming to recognise as her 'business' face: set hard, with anger behind the determination in her eye.

"I don't see what you're upset about. I need to know what's going on, and this is the easiest way to do it." She held Benezia's gaze, unflinching. "I would have thought you'd understand that. I know what Aethyta did for High Command. And I know that you knew what she did. And I can't believe that you would have stayed with her for so long if you did not approve of her work on some level. "

"There is a difference between a targeted investigation and what sounds altogether too much like blanket surveillance."

Her voice, to her own surprise, was rising with each word, and her anger with it, sudden electricity in her veins. Reading her mail! Her private correspondence. Her own daughter!

"I should not have to tell you that!"

"And you don't need to," Liara said coldly. "I know what I'm doing."

"Do you? Truly? Liara, just because you have the power to intrude on people's personal exchanges does not mean that you should exercise it! If they find out what you've done-"

"'They' will not find out, Mother, because no one will tell them, and any oddities or delays can easily be blamed on our damaged infrastructure and lack of bandwidth."

It sometimes seemed impossible that this war could have taken but a handful of years, the time she supposedly spent stasis not even long enough for a babe to come off the breast. What had happened while she slept? The Liara she had raised would never have even dreamed of intruding upon another's privacy.

Just like you would never have dreamed of taking from another mind without consent. But you did, didn't you? You even enjoyed it, the power, feeling the queen's mind break and give.

And, as quick as that, the anger vanished, leaving only the hollow exhaustion and ever-present aches in its wake. She had no right to complain. She had done worse.

"Give me the letters, Liara," she said. "All of them. I will decide for myself which ones I do and do not need to see. And you will stop reading them in future."

"I can't guarantee that last bit," Liara said stiffly, turning back to her monitors. "I need to know what people are saying if I'm to stay on top of things. There are too many secrets already. But I will pass everything that comes through for you on." A few more button presses and she was handing over the datapad. "Here. Just don't blame me if not everything is to your liking."

Benezia took it from her without even glancing through the contents.

"Is there anything else we should discuss? Or that I can help you with?"

"I don't think so. Not right now, at any rate."

The chill and distances to Liara's voice was painful to hear, though it was not near as bad as it was to look upon her expression, this hard-edged stranger that was her daughter. Benezia rose, ducking her head, dropping her eyes, rather than face it any more.

"Then I had best go as well."

Benezia didn't look back as she left, and Liara didn't call after her either. It was, perhaps, for the best. Reading her mail. Reading everyone's mail. She, herself, may have had no right to complain, but there were others who did. Aethyta, for one.

She clutched the datapad a little more tightly as she waited for the airlock to finish cycling. Just because Liara had the power to invade their privacy in such a way did not mean that she should exercise it. Had Benezia taught her nothing? What had happened to make Liara so... cold?

You happened.

If she closed her eyes, she could see Umbri's face, dead-eyes and staring, as well as hear her voice.

Benezia had happened. That was the simple truth of the matter. She had turned on her daughter, back on Noveria. Before that, even, decades ago, simply by turning away, keeping her secrets too close. And so Liara had fled into the arms of the human Spectre, who'd used and betrayed her, because she had no-one else to turn to. She had no other family; she had no siblings, nor cousins she might call upon, and Benezia had managed to deny her a father, even in death.

And then, of course, the Reapers had come.

She felt the bite of the datapad's edge, hard into her hand, and forcibly relaxed her grip with a long, slow exhale. It would be alright, in the end. Liara was still alive, at least. Aethyta was here, and the Spectre was not, and the Reapers were gone. They had to be gone. They had to be gone for Benezia to be here. The voices were just… echoes.

It was quite light, outside, when she reached it, but the morning air still chill, fogging with each breath she took. Summer was continuing her inexorable march towards autumn and then winter. This year it would be terrible, Benezia was certain. Armali had always had some snow, up in the mountains, in the darkest depths of the year, but the coming winter would bring with it all manner of snow and storms normally seen at only the highest of high latitudes. She did not know how long it would take for the rest of the dust in the atmosphere to settle; if it did not soon, or they could not find the resources to begin clearing it deliberately, would her city become like Nefrane, lost beneath the snow and ice of countless lifetimes? The peaks of Noveria, never once, in a million years, seeing the thaw?

Benezia turned her face and hands up towards the new-risen sun as it struggled to breach the haze blanketing the planet, and closed her eyes, widening her stance. It was one of the oldest forms of meditation she knew, a simple centring of self and opening of mind to one of the most basic rhythms of the cosmos. There was no mantra to accompany it, nor any other focal point beyond the light and the warmth of the sun, the measured exhale of her breath and the beat of her heart within her chest.

Alive, in this time and in this place, under this star, all other creatures beside her in spirit.

She had risen to greet the sunrise thus since her earliest days of service. Even in the worst of times, the simple ritual had filled her with peace and contentment, and given her energy enough to face whatever the day might bring. A reminder that all forms of life, no matter how disparate, were connected to each other through their suns, the sustenance they all drew from them. A thousand worlds, a thousand stars, innumerable life-forms; all alike in that one simple way.

Now there was nothing to fill her, no matter how she sought, but the chill air on her skin, the ash on her tongue and the grey skies above.

Dull. Empty. Alone.

She let her head and hands drop.

There was no hunger waiting, when Benezia looked within herself, beyond an entirely intellectual recognition that she must eat at some point that morning. The when and what of it did not really seem to matter. Later, perhaps. The dining hall would be crowded now, and her head ached anew at the thought of sitting amongst so many, for all she knew she ought to join them and be gracious in doing so. She must begin to mind appearances again, if not her own sake, then for the sake of her daughter. There were press around.

And, for the sake of her daughter, Benezia had work to do. A treaty to read and analyse. News reports to view. Letters- Her fist clenched and unclenched. Work she could do. She could be useful. She simply needed somewhere where she might sit and read, for a time, without interruption. Without the threat of the press.

She kept her head down and her eyes on the path in front of her, absently noting the footprints left in the overnight rain of ash and the careless detritus of too many people with other concerns. She cut between storage containers and sleeping huts, stepped over puddles and leaking pipes, ducked under cables and washing lines slung between shelters, towards the outmost edge of the camp, down by the river. She could smell the river long before she reached it, the stink of rot and death and other pollution lingering even now. Even now, bloated bodies washed up upon its debris-choked shores, Reaper and asari alike, to be stripped of anything of use and burnt to ash downstream, near the latrines and other waste, or buried in mass graves. Unpleasant work, to be sure, but necessary.

What prayers were being said for the dead? Were any, to light their way?

Likely not. Few knew the words anymore. Fewer believed. But the old ways, the old rites had their uses, even to those not devout, and they once would have been seen as being just as necessary as the disposal of the bodies. Centuries of life went hand in hand with the potential for centuries of loss; ritual and custom provided a tried and tested framework for the expression and surmounting of grief. Each ancient tribe had once had its own customs for death and the dead, some nothing more than a few words over where the fallen lay before the group moved on, some so complicated that they took weeks or even months to properly enact, leading to the formation of some of the very first villages.

The Siari tradition, though few observed it in full these days, was of the Nine Months: three months of mourning, for the life lost; three months of reflection, for the life shared; and three months of celebration, for the life lived. Most modern siarists simply co-opted the rituals of other races and religions, mixing and matching all manner of practices to suit individual preference. Athamist doctrine, though, remained much the same now as it had down the millennia. Prayers for the deceased, public, with much pomp and ceremony, so she might find a space as a star at the Goddess's side. A public celebration of all the lives and minds the deceased had touched. The creation of a private ait'sta'tari - a memory stone - to be kept and carried until the memory was no longer needed, or the token wore away to nothing, indicating the time of mourning had come to an end.

One of Benezia's earliest memories was of a funeral. Her grandmother's. Candles in the dark, incense and song in the air. Bewilderment and awe.

It was not much later at all that she found herself standing before the greenhouses, in their own walled enclosure on the very banks the river. Ugly, ungainly things, cobbled together from steel scrap, cargo containers and whatever translucent materials had been brought back as salvage, they were a far cry from the graceful, delicate structures that dominated the great agri-worlds of their people. Here were windows from ruined office buildings, some clear, some with their electrochromic tinting stuck on to various degrees of darkness. There, glass panes from an old storefront, more than one a spiderweb of cracks. An entire section covered by thin plastic sheets, flimsy, of the sort used to consolidate goods for shipping, flapping in the wind against their ties.

But it was warm inside the largest of them, when Benezia entered, even after the overnight chill, and humid, full of the rich, loamy smell of damp soil and an underlying hint of mildew. Neat rows of green and blue sprouts marched off into the near distance, some in soil, some in nutrient solutions, raised up off the ground by battered tables and still more crates. Piping, overhead, dripping into algae vats, and more racks of plants, suspended from walls and ceiling.

If she closed her eyes, she might imagine herself to be back in her home, for a time, in her own gardens once more. In her own small greenhouse, overflowing with tender seedlings and out of season fruit. The herb garden beside the kitchen, each plant carefully chosen and bred over centuries for depth of flavour. Rows of sweet-smelling sarmyna and dilin in the dwarf orchard to bring the birds and other wild things, filling morn and eve with bright song. The cinsiri at the heart of it all, grown tall and straight and strong for her daughter.

She breathed in deep and long, and felt some of the tension set deep within her shoulders leave her body, tension she had not entirely realised she was carrying.

"Athame's blessing to you this morning, Matriarch."

Benezia opened her eyes to find the Ardat-Yakshi moving towards her, edging between the narrow rows with an improvised watering can in her hands. The warning tattoo stood out like a lesion upon her cheek: instantly identifiable, instantly damning.

"And to you," she frantically wracked her brain for the girl's name and, to her relief, came up with it relatively quickly, "Falere. How does this morning find you?"

"Well, thank you. Today I meditated with the sunrise on the words of the matron Jedona. I've always found them to be a comfort in times of upheaval."

Benezia found a smile that approached sincerity. She had always been partial Jedona's work herself, finding her words succinct and laced with wry humour. However, the generations-dead priestess had little recognition outside of selected scholarly circles. She was a matron, for one, and few memories of her and hers existed for another, doomed as they were. Moreover, where written accounts of her works existed, the translations were old and poor, to say the least. Benezia had always meant to set aside a year or two to do her own, and a modern commentary.

"As well you might. They were written in a time of great upheaval."

"Yes. The Bihari Migration," Falere said, a smile coming to her own lips, her voice oddly wistful. "When I was younger, I used to imagine what it would have been like to be with them. All of the snow and those storms. Lost at sea for months on end. Being cast ashore beneath the cliffs of Ithreta. It all seemed like such a grand adventure." The smile became tight. "But I think I've seen enough of adventure for now."

It was a statement that begged further explanation. In another life, Benezia might well have sought it, much as she would once have carefully drawn out tales of woe and heartache from her students. But not today.

"Have you a favourite passage?"

"There are several that I like. Mostly where she talks about how the trials we face are opportunities for us to understand ourselves better."

She visibly hesitated then, glancing down at her feet before looking back up at Benezia, not quite meeting her eyes.

"I know that it's presumptuous of me to ask, Matriarch, but do you have one?"

"There is no presumption at all, Falere," she said, closing her eyes for a moment to try to think, to remember.

It was one of the more common questions of her life, asked by those seeking more insight into what she thought and why. The answer was different each time, depending on the day and her mood, the context of the question and the nature of the questioner. Sometimes she would answer with, yes, a personal favourite; at others, she might choose a fragment she thought would provoke thought, introspection in the questioner or their audience. Admittedly, those who asked could never be sure which of the two answers they'd received, but Benezia had always found it best, in her role, to remain at least somewhat enigmatic on such matters.

"Here and now," she continued with more confidence, "I believe it is: 'In the darkest times, hope often comes harder to us than despair. But these sorrows we feel are fleeting. Either they pass, or we do.'"

She watched the girl's expression grow fixed, uncomfortable, and, after a moment's confusion realised her mistake.

"No, that was said by Matriarch Leda, wasn't it?"

Listen to yourself. Your life's study, and you can't even get a single, simple question right. It was all such a waste of time, wasn't it?

Benezia pressed a hand to her temple and closed her eyes again briefly. Why could she not properly pierce the fog that beset her mind? Why did so little come to her as it should? She might endure these accursed headaches, the blasted voices if only she could still think! Still remember. At least she had gotten the girl's name right. She must take solace in such small victories, she knew, else she would have nothing.

You have nothing, because you are nothing. You deserve nothing.

"Matriarch..?"

Benezia jerked back to the here and now, abruptly aware she had been silent for several seconds. The uncomfortable expression on the girl's face had morphed to one of open concern.

"I'm sorry," she said, and hoped her smile did not look as forced as it felt. "I am afraid I'm never at my best before midday."

She was slightly startled by how easily the lie came to her lips. Aethyta was the one who'd always clung to sleep, more often than not rising only well after the rest of the household was awake and fed, the day's business underway. She would emerge from their room, blinking and stretching, to meander downstairs and attempt to wheedle brunch from the chef. Benezia, though, had always risen to greet the sun - even if she sometimes went back to a warm bed and the comfort of strong arms shortly thereafter.

Falere gave her another uncertain smile.

"Rila's much the same. My sister. She would-"

She blinked and her smile fled again, face falling into clear sorrow before she rallied herself.

"I'm sorry. Matriarch Tadeá says-" another momentary falter, "used to say that it's best not to dwell overlong on the things we can't change, so I won't. This sorrow will pass, just as you say. How may I be of service to you, Matriarch?"

Relieved by the change of topic, Benezia held up the pad slightly.

"I had hoped to sit someplace quiet for a time. Uninterrupted. I have some work to do."

"Ah. I understand. Well, you shouldn't be too bothered here," Falere said, turning back to her work. "Few come into the greenhouses unless they must, and there's not that much need for more than me at the moment. You'd think it'd be a choice duty. The work's not really that hard, and it's inside, in the warm, but I guess they think-"

She stopped abruptly once more and sighed in seeming exasperation, whether at herself or at those others in the camp, Benezia could not say.

"Anyway, there's a table and some chairs down the end that you're welcome to use. I'd welcome some company, especially if it's quiet. I'd forgotten how noisy people can be."

Benezia had visited the monastery on Lessus a handful of occasions throughout her life. A quiet place of solemn study, work and reflection, she doubted that the girl had ever truly known what it was to live amongst other asari, especially if she had been taken there as an adolescent. What was it like, to live a life so isolated? How did one find meaning when denied the connections that were the very lifeblood of their people? Work and meditation could only hold loneliness at bay for so long.

Benezia had always surrounded herself with people. Falere, no doubt, would have been utterly lost in a household like hers- like hers had been, more than two score of acolytes and guards and staff alike crammed under one too-small roof. The noise had only died down in the evenings, after dinner, as each took to their own private spaces for studies, training or meditation.

Her greenhouses had always been quiet, though. Everyone knew not to disturb her there. It was meditative, in its own way.

She carefully made her way down between the neat rows towards the back of the building, finding a small alcove made from the end of a shipping container, its edges jagged and twisted. The promised table and chairs were all but buried beneath empty pots and oddments, an emergency light taped to the ceiling for additional illumination. She cleared a space for herself with her back to the wall and a view out over the plants and their gardener, placed the datapad on the table before her and... hesitated. An odd, tight tension rose in her chest as she stared down at the device, at her own reflection within it, dark and haggard.

She had to turn it on. She had to see what was being said, and by who. But, Goddess forgive her, for all that she had demanded access to her letters, to the news, the prospect of reading any of it filled her with a terrible dread and a rising urge to flee. Anything could be contained on the device. Anything at all. Could she stand, truly, to read what was being said about her? What if it was terrible? What if it was good? And who would take out time to write to her?

The feeling spread to her gut, twisting there until she felt bile rising in the back of her throat. Her heart began to pound, hard, against her ribs, a matching drumbeat in her skull, her mouth dry as dust.

This was ridiculous. They were just words. Words she had wanted to see not fifteen minutes ago.

Words that Liara had, like as not, already read, because Liara was actively spying on the camp and doing Goddess only knew what else besides. Liara, who was reading Benezia's mail because she could. But just because Liara had the power to violate her privacy so did not mean-

Benezia laid her hands flat on the table, on either side of the device, to steady herself, drawing her breath in slow, measured pauses, in through her nose and out through her mouth until her heart slowed to something approaching normal.

They were just words. Words that would continue to exist, no matter who did or did not read them. And, even if they were terrible words, or merely true ones, she had read many an unflattering and unwelcome thing about herself over the course of her life. She had come to learn from such commentaries, in time, or at least draw amusement from them. She had even purchased a copy of that horrible caricature for her study, framed as a reminder to herself that everyone was a fool in their own way. There was no reason why she could not read these words now, see these vids. She owed it to them, those who had written to her, to read their thoughts, to hear their voices. She owed it to everyone to do what she could, however little that might be.

Benezia closed her eyes and exhaled carefully once more, wiping suddenly sweaty palms on her pant legs, before replacing them on either side of the datapad. Then, in one too-quick movement, she forced herself to flick the device on, and then to look at its contents, even as her eyes tried to betray her, skittering away as if forcibly repelled. There were three headings on the small screen: news, mail and documents.

There. That wasn't so terrible.

She let out a breath she hadn't realised she was holding.

The treaty she would look at last - she needed to know more of recent events to fully judge its impact. The news would be second, so she might have it fresh within her mind when she read the final document. That left the letters. The display indicated four.

Again the tension rose; again, gritting her teeth, she forced herself through it, opening the first letter without even glancing at its details for fear she would be able to go no further if she did. Even then, she found herself staring at the opening line for the longest time, unable to read on.

Dearest Benny.

She had to smile, at that. There were only a handful of people in the galaxy who could get away with calling her that most despised of nicknames, and even fewer still who would dare try. She had to smile, despite herself, despite how strange it felt to do so.

Dearest Benny,

I fear I have little time to write. The situation here on Teskasos is difficult; power and extranet access are intermittent. I'd just about given up all hope of there being any good news ever again when Huria brought me the newcast. I don't care about the how or the why - I'm just glad you're alive. Goddess be praised!

I'm well enough, all things considered. My daughters are with me, my acolytes and their families. Your death - or, I suppose, what we thought was your death - was a warning that most of us who knew you well chose to heed. You would not act as you did without cause, and this 'indoctrination' is proof of that. I can't begin to imagine what it was like for you. But I do know that, once again, I owe you my life, my friend.

Take care of yourself, and Liara. What I hear of her of late is troubling, but you know that

I know better than to believe everything I hear. She has always had a good heart, and I don't believe that even this calamity could change that.

I hope to see you soon, and hear from you sooner.

Goddess bless,

Gaiana

She only realised that she was weeping when a drop formed on the end of her nose, splashing down to distort a handful of letters in text below. Alive! Alive and well, and with those dear to her. Good news, for once, just as she had said. Benezia scrubbed at her cheeks, brushing the tears away as best she could.

They'd been maidens together, she and Gaiana, meeting at that horrible commune on Myfraxis, both young enough and naïve enough to think that distance from home equalled potential for enlightenment. Gaiana had been only worthwhile thing to come out of that particular experience, in truth. It had been she who'd stolen the shuttle to get them off the miserable planet and back into asari space, persuading Benezia to fly it. From there, they'd sent the shuttle back to its owner on autopilot, then hitched their way out towards the Terminus. Two together were safer two alone, they'd reasoned. It had certainly proven so on more than one occasion: if Gaiana owed Benezia her life, then the same was true in reverse, several times over.

Should she write back? Gaiana would expect her to, if at all possible. But what should she say? What could she say? That she had...

That she was...

And what did she say of poor Rosi? Another of that precious handful, but one who'd died, fevered and incoherent, at once too slow and too quick. Her handful of surviving acolytes crowding around her bed only to fall back, incredulous, at the approach of the impossible ghost, returned to haunt her final moments. Her hand, hot and dry within Benezia's own, her eyes fever-bright and unfocused, words little more than a rasp.

How little Benezia had thought of her since. Her friend of so long, whose dying thoughts had been of her, and Benezia had not even truly wept at her passing. She had not gone to see her body burnt upon the pyres, said a single prayer or meditated five minutes on the connection they had shared. She had not spoken of her deeds or shared her memories, nor offered to take her students in as her own. Little wonder Palla and Rosi's other former acolytes looked upon Benezia with such contempt: she had abandoned her friend for a second time. There would be no chance of a third.

Benezia was still agonising over a reply when the flimsy door on the opposite end of the building creaked open to admit the Justicar. The Justicar herself, resplendent in her red and gold, took in the room in a single, practiced glance, her eyes lingering over Benezia before Benzia dropped her own gaze, ducking her head and trying to return her focus to the datapad. There would be no mercy there. She knew that now.

The arrival did not go unnoticed by Falere either, who straightened from her work, and then straightened a touch further when the identity of the intruder registered.

"Mother," she said.

"Falere," the Justicar replied, slightly stiff. "I hope this morning finds you well."

"Well enough, thank you. I was just telling Matriach Benezia of my morning's meditations."

Benezia could not help but glance up at her name, just in time to meet the Justicar's gaze for a second time.

"I see," the Justicar said slowly, her brow creasing in the slightest of frowns at whatever she saw in Benezia's face. When she looked away again, back to her daughter, Benezia felt inexplicably relieved. "It is good that you're keeping to your studies."

"I suppose. More than four hundred years of habit is hard to break."

"This is so."

The watering can, once held at her side, was clasped to Falere's slender chest like a breastplate as she looked up at her mother. The Ardat-Yakshi was a tiny, frail thing to the Justicar's broad shoulders and toned muscles. Had Benezia not heard them speak, she would have found any claim of blood between them suspect.

There had never been space for such doubts with Liara. Liara had her eyes, her build, and more besides. But the similarities between them ended at the physical, for the most part. Liara sought solitude where Benezia surrounded herself with company. Where Benezia dealt so often with the intangible, Liara seemed satisfied only with what she could see with her own eyes and touch with her own two hands. And, even where, at a glance, their interests lay in similar fields, they were fundamentally different at their core. History, for one. Benezia had studied long the lore and legend of their own people, using it as a basis to try to push them forward. Liara focused, with laser intensity, on the scraps and leavings of the long-dead Protheans, speculating about the past in isolation.

That particular obsession had given Benezia cause to wonder at the universe's sense of irony, more than once.

The one thing they could truly be said to share, beyond superficialities, was that which had ultimately helped drive them apart: a certain calm, understated stubbornness, a refusal to give in to the will of another when pushed. But even that was no longer something they shared. Where the war and all that came before seemed to have forged Liara's will into a rod of iron, it had left Benezia a broken thing, starting at shadows.

"I asked for a second ration pack this morning," the Justicar was saying when Benezia returned to the here and now with another start. The warrior's body was lined with sudden tension, her words, her very stance ever so slightly hesitant. "I thought we might sit together and eat."

"Oh." A glance down at the can, clasped in two pale and delicate hands, then back up. "I've already eaten. With the first shift."

Falere hesitated again for the briefest of moments, then deposited the watering can between two rows of plants, her movements quick but careful.

"But that doesn't mean that I can't sit with you for a while. I'm sure Matriarch Benezia won't mind keeping an eye on things while I'm gone."

Benezia inclined her head carefully when Falere looked askance back at her. The Justicar's smile at the interruption and acquiescence was unpractised and certainly hesitant, but it lit up her eyes regardless, softening the hard lines of her face.

"I would like that. Come. There is a spot not far from here that I used for my own meditations this morning."

Moments later, Benezia was alone once more, only the plants and water for company, and this thing full of words she would, were she being honest with herself, rather throw in the river than continue to read. Alone, while her own daughter surrounded herself with her small circle of advisors, their counsel more trusted, and rightly so. While her own daughter spied on the camp, and told lies as it suited her. While she read Benezia's mail. Her hands curled back into fists. Just because Saren had-

No, not Saren. Saren was dead. Liara was her concern now. But what if Liara lied about that too? No. She wouldn't. Not about something like that.

Benezia had the letters now, at least, and news besides. With those two to hand, she could begin to make out the whole truth from the half-ones, and the lies of the past months, and perhaps begin to help her daughter. Already there were fragments to be gleaned from the first piece of correspondence. Teskasos was a small, new agricultural colony, founded only within the last five hundred years on the very fringes of asari space. Word of Liara's actions was spreading far – and quickly. And if there were survivors there, they may have resources to share.

Steeling herself, she flicked across to the next missive, and felt her heart freeze in her chest, the name of the sender popping out at her as if it were projected into her skull.

Shiala.

She felt a strange, sick tightness in her chest as she stared down at the name, as if she were an old drumskin, worn and stretched too thin over the frame, ready to burst under the first ill-placed blow.

Goddess.

How she had come to depend on the captain of her guard after she had left Aethyta, a rock of stability in a time of turmoil, a dependable, devoted presence at Benezia's side through decades of heartache and joy. And, somewhere along the line, the quiet commando whose horizons Benezia had been privileged to help broaden had become a companion as well as a protector and student. She was someone Benezia had taken deeper into her heart than was certainly wise, and, eventually, into to her bed, which was even less so. She had known it. Shiala had known it. And it had happened anyway.

Shiala had been the first to step forward when Benezia had laid out her plan to bring Saren back into the fold. She was always the first. The most loyal. Benezia's spear and her shield and her right hand. She had trusted Benezia, and Benezia had trusted her in turn - but not enough to be swayed from her path by the doubts she voiced.

Shiala, with her serious eyes, her shy smile and her kind heart, had followed Benezia into darkness and been abandoned there.

The guilt, never far away, rushed back to churn in her gut, her jaw growing slack, the rush of saliva to her mouth as nausea threatened anew as she stared down at the pad and the dark lines of text. She couldn't focus properly on the letter; words, phrases popped out at her, seemingly at random, accusing.

We believed in you without question. Now that I think about it, that's really a terrible thing to do to someone, isn't it?

Twenty young asari, all looking to her to lead them out of the hell she brought them into. All trusting her. In their faces, the reflections of a thousand of priestesses, a billion believers, trillions of asari. All expecting her to show them the way, never once believing she could falter. She could not afford to be wrong.

You tried to do a good thing, for good reasons....

And where had that led them? Where had it left her? Good intentions counted for so little.

Their voices were in my head during the war. Part of me was glad, if you can believe that, to know I wasn't fighting shadows anymore. They come back to me in my sleep. Do you dream of them too?

She did not need to sleep to hear them. She merely needed to close her eyes and listen. She need only look over her shoulder to see them. She could feel them now, breathing hot against her neck.

The last time Liara wrote, she asked me to come and see you. I'm sorry, but I can't.

Liara had written to Shiala, asking her to come to them. She must have thought it might help. But Liara did not know. She could not have known. Benezia had kept so much from her.

It was getting harder and harder to breathe, her heart racing fit to burst.

Knowing what you were, and what I was, and what we were together, I don't think I could bear to see what we both are now.

If Benezia was a broken thing now, what was Shiala? Had it left her a ruined shell too? One that woke, screaming, in the night? One that fled to lonely spaces for fear of what others certainly thought of her?

When she reached the end of the letter, she sat and stared at it for the longest time.

I carved your name upon an ait'sta'tari of stone with the others, when I heard of your loss. Perhaps now, with your return, it's time to return it to the sea.

I hope you understand.

Benezia could suddenly stand it no longer. She found herself on her feet, pushing back, away from the table and the words upon it so violently that the table itself rocked and shed some of its load, her chair teetering back momentarily on two legs to crash down behind her.

I carved your name upon an ait'sta'tari. It's time to return it to the sea. I hope you understand.

This was not right. The letter from Shiala could not be real. Shiala was dead. Benezia was certain of it. She had volunteered to go with Saren to Feros, and Benezia had never seen either of them again. She was dead, like all the others Benezia had led into that terrible place. Like Umbri, whose life Benezia had snuffed out with her own two hands, rather than see her linger on as a mindless, drooling shell. Like Adàrytha before her, who'd found the strength to turn her rifle on herself before she was lost completely.

It's time to return it to the sea. I hope you understand.

Shiala was dead.

Wasn't she?

But Liara had made mention-

A cold shiver ran up her spine.

No, it didn't matter what Liara had said. This was wrong. All wrong. Everything. Even the things that were right, on the surface, were twisted mockeries. Sickness lurking beneath every surface. Liara. Aethyta. Shiala. Lies and violence and rejection. The world couldn't be like this. It couldn't be.

She felt light-headed, as though she might faint. She covered her eyes with her hand to stop the room from spinning, her other pressed hard to her heart and the unbearable tightness there. It hurt to breathe, each breath coming faster, harsher than the last.

You will never escape.

Sovereign knew her. More than eight hundred years old and she had been rendered less than a child beneath the press of its mind, unable to do anything but curl up into herself and cower until it turned its attentions elsewhere. All of her weaknesses, her fondest memories, her hopes, her fears and her desires had been laid bare. Had it found her, buried deep within herself, holding on to the faint hope of escape? Had it built a new prison for her? A world she might believe in, unaware, unresisting? It could have. It must have. Its anger could be terrible.

Bent almost double now, she gripped the edges of the table to steady herself until the cheap plastic of it bit deep into her palms. There was no pain, though, even when her nails buckled and bent back. There should have been pain. If she was here, if this was now, there would be pain. She relinquished her grip and held her hands, scored by deep, purple lines, up before her eyes and felt only the faintest of throbs. There should be pain. The warmth of the sun.

When had it started? What was the last thing that had been real? She had been shot - she straightened, her hand reflexively flying to her side to feel the raised scar there through the fabric. That seemed real. The fight with Liara and the Spectre - Kemy, Emeeka, Da'istha, gunned down one after the other. The smell of blood and hot metal and disinfectant in the chill air. The screaming of the Queen. The terrible pain in her head, her vision doubling as a spiderweb of cracks appeared and began to race along the glass walls of her sanctuary, her prison, as she fought to free herself, however briefly…

Her fingers moved to her chest, scrabbling and tearing at the cloth until the wound there was laid bare before her gaze. A neat hole that had been cut through her breast, through skin and fat and muscle, past the blood and bone and to lodge a bullet so close to her heart. A mortal wound. She had been dying, the life ebbing out of her with each breath. Relief and terror as the darkness rose to swallow her whole. That was real. That had to be. Didn't it?

Had she died, then? Was this her punishment? Not disgrace but damnation? Not from Sovereign, but from the Goddess she had discarded a hundred and fifty years ago? Doomed to live half a life in the ruins of the city she had come to love? Eternally faced with the accusing eyes of those she had pledged to guide and protect and utterly failed?

No, not dead. Athame was a myth. She knew that. The beacon had left no room for doubt, as desperately as she had wished otherwise. It must be Sovereign. It knew of terror. It knew, too, that the greatest despair came from nurturing hope and then killing it moments before it reached full flower. It had found her. It had found her again, in those last moments before death, and locked her away. Or… it had brought her back. She had seen it resurrect the dead, some of them days old. She could be one of those... things. A demon, screaming in the night. It had shown them to her, knowing what it would make her. Its hatred was unimaginable. Disgusted by her, even as it had broken her and made her do what it wanted. Made her want to do such terrible things. Pleasure in death. In breaking the mind of another.

She stared down at her hands, again, watching them tremble with a distant fascination, watching the tremors spread up her arms and into the rest of her body. She could see claws, so easily, if she looked. Her gaze fell to her chest, her breasts, heavy, glistening with sudden sweat, the slate blue there underlaid with sickly grey. The scar there that bled black ichor when she touched it again and again and again, feeling only faint pressure. Darkness all around her, black spiderwebs creeping in at the edge of her vision. The pain in her head, growing with each laboured breath.

She had to free herself. Where was the way out? There must be a way out. There was still a chance. Even if she was one of those things now, she could at least end it. She could seek out the light. Find an end. But how?

She shoved the table out of the way as if it were nothing, less than nothing, it was nothing, sending it and the rest of its load flying. Soil and dust rained down upon her, choking her, shards of pottery leaping at her feet. Stumbling, tripping, her own feet clumsy beneath her, she struggled out, away from it, out of the darkness and into the light, flinching as it struck her eyes. There, as she cast about herself for a path to freedom she saw the walls, the ceiling, for what they really were:

Glass.