Vigor Mortis

Chapter 160: Pneuma

My body twitches and everything is wrong. What happened? I feel like a stranger in my own flesh. Is this my body!? Of course it is. Of course. What else would it be? This must be a nightmare.

“She’s coming to!” my sister whom I’ve never met declares in my birth language that I’ve never heard before.

…What? Oh, it’s this again, but weirder. Wait, what again? I open my eyes, sitting up as fear starts to take me. Except I am a Princess, so I hold it inside as I have been taught. I am indeed on a bed; a sickbed in the Progenitor’s chambers, no less. It’s quite easy to identify: the ceiling is a brilliant pale marble encrusted with beautiful patterned gems. What honor have I accomplished to deserve to lie here!? Agh, my head hurts so much! I turn it slightly so I can see the voice I just heard, meeting the worried stare of my sister Talanika.

“Are you feeli—mmph!”

She is yanked out the door by the art of Motion before she can so much as finish a sentence, quickly replaced by the stern and suspicious face of my combat instructor, Queen Nagatilka. It seems odd to me that I can judge her expression from her face, since she doesn’t have a nose or mouth like the savages below do. Except… what? What do either of those have to do with facial expressions? Nagatilka’s eyes tell me everything I need to know about her mood: the slight narrowing at the top and bottom and the expansion at the sides indicate she is focusing on me as much as she can while optimizing her peripheral vision, a clear sign of suspicion. And her face is stern because it’s always stern.

“What is your name?” she asks me, which is a good question. I mean a strange question.

“Malrosa,” I tell her. “Princess Malrosa. Am I being tested for memory loss?”

“Yes,” my instructor tells me bluntly. “Your soul has been damaged.”

“Oh,” I say, keeping my voice as even as I’m able. “That… explains a lot, actually.”

“Elaborate on that,” Nagatilka orders.

“Um… everything feels… strange. Foreign. Like I’m looking at it all for the first time. Except I’m not. I still remember it, I just… am surprised by remembering it? Does that make any sense?”

“Hmm… yes, to some extent,” Nagatilka confirms. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

I frown, thinking back. Except I don’t because my mouth isn’t on my face, it’s under my chin and stays tucked away when not in use. My body breathes and speaks through vents along the sides. What was that word I just thought of? ‘Frown?’ It sounds like something from another language. Agh, wait, Nagatilka will be angry with me if I get distracted. I quickly make a subtle movement with my mandibles, just to feel what it’s like, and repress a shudder at the sensation before answering my instructor.

“The soldiers reported a force of savages managed to infiltrate the lower levels—”

I find myself suddenly annoyed at the term ‘savages,’ though I’m not sure why.

“—Where they supposedly bypassed the arcane and physical defenses with ease, and then unleashed some sort of… cascading invisible death art, or so they said. So… I tried to convince you to let us engage them. You eventually acquiesced. They evaded our first frost pyramid, countered the second, and dealt enough damage to Talanika’s armor to engage its retreat contingency. Two of the s… the enemy combatants kept destroying all my constructs, and I, um, was about to figure out that their weakness was a concentrated light ray before you told me to use that, but then you did, so I did, and it killed the small one with the strange Ekphrasis arts, and then…”

Pain. Pain deep inside me. Some horrid parasite burrowing where it is not supposed to go, reaching through places nothing is supposed to be. It’s a memory of unprecedented terror. Yet also… some kind of sick pride. What an accomplishment, my own hollowing was. What… why do I feel that way?

“…I guess… I got hit by a Pneuma construct?” I hedge.

Nagatilka regards me silently for a moment before continuing.

“What is the earliest thing you remember?” she asks.

Again, I repress a nervous movement. The question gives me pause. What is the earliest thing I remember? Something compels me to say ‘starving,’ but that’s not right. I’ve never really starved before, and Nagatilka would be mad at me if I referred to her meal-altering punishments as such. Let’s see… I remember both times I gave birth to myself, so definitely something from before then. To my dismay, I find most of the recollections… fuzzy. Imperfect. I pick an arbitrary memory I know I must have—my mother hugging me for the first time—and I find it outside my grasp. The feeling shakes me. I bring two hands up to my head… oh, goodness I have four hands, that’s strangely odd. This must be how Lark feels. Wait, who’s… ah! The vrothizo with the savages! Its name is Lark!

…Why do I know that? Oh, no. No no no. These memories aren’t mine! That’s why I’m in one of the Progenitor’s sickbeds! That’s why I’m being interrogated! If a powerful enough Pneuma user had access to my soul, I could be in very, very serious trouble! I feel fear again, and it suddenly multiplies. I need to keep this secret!

“I… struggle to recall all but the most important memories of my previous lives,” I admit slowly, carefully measuring my words. “But everything from my current life seems normal and intact.”

“That’s about what I expected,” Nagatilka says. “Nothing else? No strange impulses?”

“Nothing comes to mind,” I lie.

I can handle this situation on my own. I’m a skilled Pneuma artist in my own right, and over halfway to my fifth cycle. I should be expected to manage my own soul at this stage, when you think about it. No need to tell anyone I have anything other than a bit of memory trouble that will doubtlessly get cleared up when I recover.

Unexpectedly, Nagatilka rushes forwards, causing me to flinch in terror. Am I being attacked!? Did she discover my lie!? But no, instead she just wraps all four of her arms around me, scooping me up off the bed into a crushing hug. She smells like stress and worry, full of that special kind of mortal terror reserved only for we who are not mortal at all.

“I am so, so sorry, Malrosa,” she tells me. “I was a fool. I was supposed to teach you, to protect you, and now you have lost years that cannot come back. Your soul was severely damaged, my little dustfur. Torn apart from the inside. Your memory core is almost entirely gone.”

Oh. Oh, no. That’s why my memories are fuzzy. They’re…

“They’re gone,” I breathe in horror. “They’re not coming back.”

“Yes,” my teacher confirms, and I feel like I’ve been struck. “Only your current body’s memories are preserved. None of your essential functions have been damaged so they should naturally back themselves up again before the end of your cycle, but…”

“My missing memories are gone forever,” I finish. “I have lost nearly two cycles of time.”

“Yes,” Nagatilka says again. “I’m so sorry. I have failed you.”

This means… this means…!

“I’m a child again!” I groan loudly, dropping any pretext of propriety and just giving into my urge to comb my setae in exasperation. Forty years! Gone from my soul in a flash! Forty boring years that no longer count, even the parts I remember! Damn it all!

Nagatilka bears this demonstration of despair with thinly-veiled amusement.

“You were a child before, Malrosa,” she reminds me patiently.

“I was basically an adult!” I protest. “I was fifty-five years old, Naga! But now only fifteen of them count! Uuuugh, this is the worst! I won’t be allowed to train with you anymore!”

“That is somewhat of a moot point,” Nagatilka says, “as I will be resigning from my position as war teacher out of shame. I was arrogant, and I let you get hurt in the one way that truly mattered. I never imagined the savages would have an art as powerful as the one they used on you. I’ve never seen its like before.”

That chills me.

“…You’ve never seen the spell before, Naga?” I ask her, awed.

“I am hardly a repository of every spell in the world,” she answers, clearly amused. “But no, it was a war-Pneuma structure beyond anything I’ve ever seen. It smashed through both the protections on your armor and your personal soul shield in an instant. I suppose if I were to describe it, I would say it was some variation of a wraith art, but constructed with the savage’s own soul. A suicide spell, likely activated by the creature’s death. A barbaric act of spite.”

I bristle a bit at that description, my setae standing up slightly with frustration.

“It’s not b-barbaric!” I find myself sputtering. “It’s…”

It’s what? Am I taking offense on behalf of mortals? Agh, I might be! I’m mentally compromised! I can’t let Naga know!

“…It’s not going to be good for me if you tell people I nearly got felled by a barbarian’s spell!” I say. Ha-ha! Excellent save, Malrosa!

Nagatilka laughs at that. Goodness, she has a strange laugh. Somewhere between a hiss and a series of musical notes. Except… that’s a perfectly normal laugh? Gah! Curse this affliction a thousand times!

“You’re quite right, Malrosa,” she says. “I should be generous where generosity is due. The spell was truly inspired in its brutality. Almost as much as the spell which felled all the men in the bottom three floors.”

The bottom three floors? All of them? Why that’s… that’s tens of thousands of servants!

“H-how is such a thing…” I frown, or at least try to. It’s a plague. Somehow I know it’s a plague, which is ridiculous because our kind does not get sick, not even the men. At least not by natural diseases.

“The Progenitor ordered a complete, unconditional quarantine of the affected areas and two floors above,” Nagatilka says solemnly. “If not for her wisdom, we likely would have lost much more. The savages have bioweapons, they have Pneuma arts… they have advanced much faster than anticipated.”

“What will this mean for the conquest?” I ask, awed and afraid and strangely, confusingly proud.

“Well, that has yet to be decided,” Nagatilka says. “It will certainly be delayed, as our need to expand has just been temporarily alleviated. Though if you’re asking my personal opinion, I wish to go down to those pathetic mortals and avenge what they’ve taken from you.”

I don’t like that idea.

“Please don’t, Naga,” I ask her. “Perhaps we should just leave them alone. The other fronts are progressing much more rapidly, we do not need Ver… er. The Plentiful Wood.”

What was I about to call it? Verdantop? Ugh, the savage language sounds so vulgar. …Wait, do I know their language? What!?

“Naaaaaga!” a voice calls into the room. “Stop hogging my sister! You and great-grandmother already checked her while she was out! Is she safe or not?”

“She is safe, Princess Talanika,” my teacher calls back. “You may enter.”

“Aaaah, Mal-Mal!” my sister cries out, performing a gliding leap into the room to tackle me on my sick bed like the incorrigible little girl that she is. She nuzzles me, two of her arms grooming her own chest-setae while the other two comb through mine.

“I was so worried!” she whines. “My armor barely even got scratched and it took me away from the battle! It was totally unfair! And then you came back unconscious and Naga was freaking out and—”

“I was not—” Nagatilka hisses, “‘freaking out,’ as you put it. And those savages shouldn’t have been able to scratch your armor at all.”

“It was that pretty scaled one who did it,” Talanika comments. “She cast a reversing Motion art on the defensive enchantments and nullified them for a moment. With her tail, I think! Then their pet vrothizo grazed the armor with a tooth! It was impressive, for a pair of mortals. But it shouldn’t have been enough to take me out of the fight!”

“As you know, Princess, your safety is more important than any other part of the war effort,” Nagatilka chides. “All our safety is more important. If a servant dies it merely hastens the inevitable. But anything you lose is forever. Your sister has lost much today. I am glad the same didn’t happen to you.”

“Yesss, I heard that,” Talanika says mischievously, reaching her arms around me to prod at the base of my wings. “Guess who’s the little sister now, hmm?”

“Tala, no…!” I protest, but with an evil giggle she immediately starts tickling me. I shriek. Ah, Progenitor! Why did you make us capable of being tickled!? Is this truly part of Your perfect design!?

Not one to suffer such indignity unopposed, I twist around, leveraging my superior size and strength to get my arms around my assailant and begin my counterattack, causing Talanika to howl with uncontrolled laughter. Ha! I’m no longer the smallest one! Two points for this freaky bug body, I suppose.

I halt, my mirth gone in an instant. I just thought that. That was my thought. But it’s not something that makes any sense for me to think. I need to… I need to figure this out.

“Is it alright if I retire to my chambers?” I ask, turning to Nagatilka. My sister’s giggles quickly die out as the mood turns serious again. “I am still quite tired, and I don’t wish to infringe on the Progenitor’s hospitality.”

There is an unspoken part of my question. Am I allowed to leave?

“That’s fine,” Nagatilka informs me. “You are free to move at your leisure, Princess.”

I nod slowly, then catch the motion. What sort of moronic head-bob was that?

“Do I take that to mean you didn’t find anything foreign in my spirit?” I ask my teacher directly. “Tala said you already investigated.”

“Queen Venatila and I investigated the integrity of your soul personally,” my teacher confirms. “It is… a harrowing sight, little dustfur. There is a cavern where you once had a glorious gem. But we found nothing left in its place. You are safe, Malrosa. Though I suggest you rest before investigating yourself.”

Which is to say it’s not a sight conducive to good sleep. Wonderful. Also, terrifying. Because I clearly am compromised by something, unless the damage is simply driving me mad. That even one of our oldest Queens and my teacher together couldn’t find it is… worrisome. Perhaps I should tell them I—

No.

I will not tell them. I cannot tell them. I’ll die if I do and I know this on a deep, unshakable level. We’re inseparable now. Let’s not give them any cause to suspect us. To suspect me.

I nod, thank my teacher, and depart for my home with haunting terror and macabre curiosity both clawing at the edges of my mind. I don’t know what’s going on. But I will soon. I merely need to be alone.

The Progenitor’s castle is a truly beautiful place, and the experience of walking through it for what feels like the first time is breathtaking. It’s nothing like the lower levels of Hiverock… which is the first comparison that comes to mind, for some reason, and an abjectly terrible one. The lower levels are built as places in which the men manage war assets. The Progenitor’s castle is the crowning jewel of our entire civilization, a masterwork crafted by our people’s greatest engineers and supplied with every bit of the substantial wealth and opulence we can bring to bear. Yet it isn’t merely a gaudy boast of affluence like so many of the homes of Queens; the Progenitor’s home is nothing short of a work of art. The gemstones in the ceiling of the halls are part of a massive mosaic, patterned in such a way that it is impossible to piece together without our perfect memories and knowledge of each part of the home. It has been my honor to collect much of the mosaic over my life, and now nearly all that progress is gone. Tala and I are fairly certain the mosaic depicts The One Below All in its terrible wrath, but we’ve not shared our theories with the Queens. That would be cheating. As the only two Princesses in Liriope, we are expected to learn and grow at our own pace, not have answers handed to us wholesale by our elders.

Of course, the ceiling is far from the only beauty on display. This is the sick hall, and the walls reflect that with their beautiful glyphs, engraved with stunning colored metals I can’t begin to identify. They are equal parts art and function, lining the area with spells that remove impurities from the air, block sound between rooms, and encourage restful sleep. It is here in her home that we see the truth to what the Progenitor teaches us all: the art is named so because it is art. It is more than simply bending the world to our whim. It is beauty and grace and an expression of mastery that needs no element of Pneuma to drive the emotions of any onlooker to rapture.

I suppose I could just teleport myself home, but I want to see the rest of Liriope. It seems interesting, from what I can remember, and attempting to craft the art might give me away regardless. …Wait, will this condition prevent me from…? Oh, no. It won’t. Thank goodness. I just need to return home and things will make sense. I wander out into the welcoming hall of the Progenitor’s castle, admire the lifelike statues of her many bodies (most of which look the same to me, even though they’re clearly very different) and step out into the glorious open cavern that is the capital city of Liriope.

First and foremost, I soak in the light of the God’s Avarice, a massive magical construct that takes the appearance of a bright flaming orb, which grants warm, crisp light to our cavern in predictable cycles rather than the inconsistency of the surface. It is thanks to the God’s Avarice that Liriope is lush with greenery, from shade-giving trees to soft green grass to beautiful arrangements of flowers. All of it is tended to by expert gardener-servants by night to ensure that the beauty is perfected with the coming of each dawn.

The city is built as a large, spherical cavern, with the center area low and the arched ceiling holding God’s Avarice at the highest point. The outer edge holds most of the homes for Queens, mighty castles filled with servants, each built to the specifications and whims of its owner. Each Queen has her own home, and each home reflects its Queen. As a Princess I have my own home as well, though it is in the lowest rung of Queenhomes, where the youngest all rest. I do not mind this, however; being in the lower rungs merely puts me closer to the center parts of the city, where the servant-run services are offered. It makes walks to the theater, salon, spa, library, or anywhere else I may want to go quite a bit shorter than it would otherwise be, and I prefer to walk or fly than be carried around by my servants-on-lend. As a Princess, I have not yet birthed any men of my own, and so my personal entourage is technically beholden to a variety of Queens. Not that this makes them any less loyal to me, but I’m looking forward to making a set to my personal specifications.

I stop walking for a moment, suppressing an urge to furrow my eyes in a strange way that presumably would signify the annoyance I feel on some other kind of face. I am… unbelievably spoiled. Horrifyingly spoiled, really. Everything I have just thought of as a good thing exists on the backs of servants and slaves, and I think of it like that’s simply how the world is. This is disgusting. It’s… it’s… gah! Just hold on a moment, me!

I have been educated in how lesser cultures perform acts of slavery, and it is certainly revolting and not what is happening here. Other species fail because they are each designed for all things: the savage people of Verdantop—I mean The Plentiful Wood—are all as much Queens as they are warriors and servants! Their men are made for the same thing as their women, and both are subjected to servitude, which neither is built for! And they know this is horrible, yet do it anyway! That is not how things are done here!

The men are servants, yes, but they literally live to serve. To ask a servant not to obey, not to work for the good of their Queen, is to invite in them a most horrible distress. They are born with this desire to serve, they are born with the knowledge of the task they were created for and the expertise required to perform it. And above all, they are born with an instinctive joy in doing it. Savages are savages because they force their will on others out of selfishness and cruelty. Queens are Queens because our wills are the happiness of our people made manifest. No one is forced into their actions, here. It is simply what we are.

The bubbling indignance in my chest quiets down. For what feels like the hundredth time today, I suppress a horrified shudder. There is clearly a foreign will influencing me. Once again I consider turning around and begging for help, but the desire is quashed so hard I find myself incapable of keeping it in my mind for more than a fleeting moment. I have to go home, I have to be alone. So I resume my walk, with that as my intention.

The terror makes the time pass rather slowly, but it’s not a terribly long walk to my humble home. That is, if you can call a four-story building designed exclusively around the whims of one person ‘humble.’ My home is full of things that pertain to my interests. The largest room is my personal library full of spell books and tales of battle, both historical and fictional, but I also have rooms full of magical automatons, mainly small toys, with some even crafted by me. I enjoy working with my hands, and though my designs are not terribly unique or creative—the builder-servants quite outdo me in that area, to my dismay—I still find the process of creation relaxing. But I do not go to these rooms, instead heading directly for my sanctum. It is the room in my home designed for privacy, warded and protected to the full extent of my magical might. It is full of soft and comfy things, and a few items for, ah, self-pleasure. I hurry inside, lock myself in, and wait for whatever horrible thing is about to happen to me.

Well, if we’re being specific, the horrible thing has already happened. Now I’m just introducing myself.

I shudder. My stomach churns. Something is happening in my soul, a horrid weight filling what was once empty! Instinctively, I try to channel the mana of The One Below All and let out a cry of pain. It… it burned my spirit! What?

I’m doing it wrong. Obviously. The mana flows up from within myself, filled by the reservoir I know to be me. Still terrified and confused, I use it to craft my Pneuma-sensing art, a strange satisfaction filling me as I shape myself so beautifully. I stare deep into my soul, and with my terrifying blue eye, I stare back.

Hello, me. Thanks for returning home, it was getting incredibly cramped.

I take a deep breath with my new body, pushing back the confused cries of its brain for a little while as I take stock of my new situation. I stretch all four of my arms independently, then move on to flexing my wings, drinking in the strange mix of familiar experiences that are still entirely new. I’m… very fuzzy, now. My entire chest is covered with what the Athanatos call ‘setae,’ but it’s exactly like fur so I’m calling it fur. I strip off the fancy cloth garments I’ve been wearing and head to the magic mirror charm on the wall, realizing with annoyance that I can’t actually refuel it since it’s made of Watcher mana. Frustrating, but only a minor problem. There’s a bit of unused metal a few rooms over that I’ve been planning to turn into an automaton core, so I quickly go fetch that, cast a spell to turn it into a glyph charger, and align it with the mirror.

Malrosa is incredibly good at magic. She’s kind of awesome. Just like with Melik, I really don’t want to subsume her, but I’m not sure I have any choice in the matter.

I have absolutely zero memory of the first time I possessed a body. The second time, I was battle-crazed, feral, and running entirely on instinct. This time, I fully expected to die, and I actually had a plan. Queen souls—or I guess Princess souls, in this case, though the differences are cultural and not practical—are incredibly complex but also incredibly organized. In many ways, they’re easier to figure out than human souls despite being so much more alien. Most of the soul is a memory center, and that’s what I hollowed out to give myself room to hide… which turned out to be incredibly difficult, since these guys all know animancy (or, as they call it, the art of Pneuma). I had to integrate enough with this soul to make it mine but also hide my entire physical anima structure inside my mana tunnel, which it is not meant for and was a phenomenally uncomfortable experience from start to finish. But I did it. I’m here and the other Queens don’t know about me. Now I can move onto the next step of my plan, which is ‘freak out because I don’t have a plan.’

So… I’ll focus on taking stock of my situation for now. The mirror finally charges up and flickers to life, letting me examine my new body’s anatomy. The white fur is thickest around my chest, thinning out around my belly and vanishing around and below my waist where my breathing vents are largest. My forearms and lower legs are fur-covered, but the rest is just hard, white chitin. My hand structure is particularly interesting: I have six fingers on each due to an extra thumb, and they alternate between hard, claw-like chitin and flatter fingers with very, very tiny growths of setae for grip. My first thumb is clawed, my second has grip, my forefinger is clawed, my middle finger is gripped, and so on. The claws aren’t really for combat, though; my new memories show me using them for delicate inscriptions and holding very tiny objects like organic tweezers.

While my large, segmented eyes are indeed used to express emotion, the way they change is incredibly subtle due to the hardness of my face. It’s all chitin, no skin, and it doesn’t bend or emote in a human way at all. Instead, each individual hex of the compound eye can warp slightly, independently allowing minute optimizations in how I perceive objects I’m focusing on versus objects in my peripheral. Different configurations of eye hex shape form the basis for all facial expressions in my new species. The more I pay attention to it, the more disorienting it is, so I just decide to move on.

My mouth is indeed underneath my chin, and I can see why it’s apparently ‘undignified’ to move it in this culture when I’m not eating: when extended, it’s kind of horrifying. Four mandibles and a stretchy, sticky tongue with chitinous teeth growing out the sides do not exactly make for a pleasant social experience. I apparently enjoy making funny faces with them in the mirror, though, extending the fleshy tendril of a tongue down far enough to almost wrap around my own neck. I spend a while doing that and giggling to myself before investigating the less appealing elements of my body.

Hmm… let’s see. A thorough pat-down indicates that despite a bit of fuzzy poof in that area, I don’t have breasts. That’s a relief. I know it would be stupid for an insect person to have breasts, but I was still weirdly worried about it. My reproductive system, while unfortunately quite present, is fortunately all internal. And a quick check of Malrosa’s memories indicates that Athanatos don’t get periods! Fuck yeah! This is probably my favorite body yet.

Athanatos is a more formal name for the females of my new species, referring to Princesses and Queens collectively. It literally means ‘without death,’ which I suppose is why To Kill From Above once called me ‘Athanatos of Skin.’ After all, every single one of them is a Lich. Well, kind of.

They’re not like me, or even like Ars. They can’t just hop out of their bodies and possess anyone they want. What they can do is, uh, way grosser actually. Except it’s not gross how dare you! It’s beautiful and wonderful and actually kind of pleasurable and shut up Malrosa get back in your brain. We get pregnant with a daughter and then we possess our own daughter right before giving birth to her. It’s gross.

…Actually, wait a second on that. I possess people that already have established personhood and lives. That’s way worse, isn’t it? I try to wrinkle my nose in annoyance and fail, since I no longer have one. I have fuzzy sticks coming out of the top of my head that smell things instead. I wiggle them to try and approximate the expression. Predictably, it mostly just feels weird.

Anyhow, speaking of the person whose life I’m subsuming… hi, Malrosa. I’m Vita, but you already know that because you’re currently me, and I’m currently you. We’re mostly separate right now, but unfortunately I have to use our body’s brain periodically to handle the thinking, or I might go full Nawra and lose my personhood. And whenever I use your brain, your brain becomes a bit more me and a bit less you. Unless we can use your animancy knowledge to figure out a way around that, I guess. Here, you take the mouth. I mean… the vocal organs, since we don’t talk with our mouth anymore.

“It’s very strange that humans do!” Malrosa hisses. “So we’re merging? That didn’t go well for our—for your last host!”

Nope, not at all. So. Brainstorming session?

“What? Oh, you mean… ugh, your language is awful!”

Yeah, I prefer yours the more we think in it.

“So much better, right?”

So much better.

“It was designed by an actual linguist for clarity and ease of use, who then shared it—”

—With all Athanatos through the art of Pneuma, who then instilled it in future generations of workers, and now it’s the national language, yes. I know. I have all your memories?

“And I… have yours.”

That’s how it works, yep. So unless you want to stop existing as an individual—

“—We need to investigate the anima-neural linkage pathways, split them, and partition off an area of the brain for your use, would be my first guess,” I ponder out loud. “But that kind of cranial editing is far beyond my skill level. Of course, we could just get you a different body—”

—But even if you survive the damage I dealt to our soul, I have no reason to believe you’ll remain my ally once we separate. Our people are at war, after all. And while I don’t want to be at war—

“—And that ‘I’ in this context does actually refer to our collective self—”

—You (as in what’s left of Malrosa) may revert to prior beliefs without my (as in Vita’s) direct influence, and if that happens I would be screwed. Which is why, even though I don’t want you to die—

“—It’s a preferable outcome to the likely alternative of separation, since this optimizes our survival collectively, which is more important to me than the survival of the singular Malrosa, as that is an entity which does not currently exist.”

I take a deep breath. I guess I have my priorities straight, though worryingly the merger seems to be happening faster than expected.

“I’ve done this once before, but it’s still absolutely fucking horrifying. Definitely worse than possessing my own unborn daughter. That was a body intended for me from the start, it never had any soul other than my own.”

I don’t answer myself, since it no longer feels useful in regards to sorting my thought process. Shit. I flop back on one of the softer beds in the room, trying to come up with a better solution to the merger problem. I spend hours pouring into it and keep getting distracted, so eventually I get up, toss some clothing back on, and head to my workshop. I carefully start taking one of the broken toy automatons apart, which always helps me think. The longer I fail to find a solution, however, the less likely any found solution is to work in the first place, and the less motivated I am to find a solution at all.

After all, the more Malrosa dies, the less reason I have to save her. The horror lessens as the part of me dreading destruction becomes quieter and quieter. This is… very different from what happened with Melik. It’s nearly ten hours before I realize it’s late into the night, I haven’t eaten anything all day, and there’s really not much point in continuing. I sigh, exit my workshop, and press a rune that calls the servants to deliver food. It’s time to focus on other problems, and for these I’ll need a clear head.

Problem one: I am now constantly surrounded by animancers, and there’s no damn way my ruse will work for long. The Queens are skilled enough to see into souls just as easily as glancing at their surface, something the people of The Plentiful Wood couldn’t do, and while I sort of have a way around that it’s going to be inherently suspicious if the vacant memory core I hide my real body in isn’t healing like it should be. Which it won’t, because I’m hiding inside it, and that’s absolutely the kind of thing Queen Nagatilka and Queen Venatila will check up on! Discovery is inevitable. Therefore, my solution needs to revolve not around preventing discovery, but delaying it long enough to establish a workable explanation for my condition that won’t have long-term negative consequences.

Problem two: the long-term negative consequences. The Athanatos are at war with the mortal savages I happen to consider friends and family. I would prefer that my friends and family be left alone, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned about myself it’s that I’m terrible at convincing people to leave things alone. My position as Princess Malrosa certainly puts me in a better bargaining position than before, but not by as much as I’d like. I’m a child, culturally, despite the fact that Malrosa has been alive for fifty five years across three different bodies, two of whom she personally gave birth to. Gah! So disgusting. I mean, my memories of it are actually quite positive, even the sex. And Athanatos don’t suffer from childbirth the way humans do, it’s entirely painless for them. Just… strange.

I shudder and start clawing at my chest-fur to calm down, which embarasses me immediately as a servant walks in with the food I ordered and witnesses me do it. Gah! Horribly undignified. According to the servant’s soul, however, he doesn’t seem to have any problem with it. He’s just happy to see me doing well. I guess I’m legally only fifteen now, so people will probably expect this from me. Age is measured by the time stored in one’s memory core rather than actual physical time from one’s initial birth, which usually works quite well… except specifically in my situation, I suppose. Argh, it’s so frustrating!

Anyway, problem three: returning… home. I look up from the delicious meal I’ve been wolfing down at my opulent new home that I designed. A home full of servants that enjoy serving me, right next to a family that loves me, free from strife and violence. As much as Hiverock is contributing to how shitty it is to live on Verdantop, Hiverock itself seems to be a wonderful place to live. It’s borderline utopic, depending on how you view the idea of a serving class that instinctively loves and is satisfied by serving. Even the warriors are happy to die for us. It’s what they’re made for.

Malrosa’s life is happy. Genuinely, beautifully happy. Vita’s is brutal and horrid, defined by tragedy after endless tragedy. What reason do I have to go back and live as Vita again? I don’t want to give up my family back on Verdantop, I suppose, but for that matter I don’t want to give up my family here, either. I want… to stay.

…Maybe that will change after a night’s sleep. I certainly need one.

I retire to my room. This, too, is a beautiful place, better than any other I’ve lived in before. There’s a book on my nightstand that I’m halfway through reading that’s quite engrossing. I can turn the lights on and off with simple verbal commands. It’s wonderful. It’s beautiful. It surpasses even the richest of noble homes back in Skyhope by an unfathomable margin, and my home is relatively modest. Even ignoring the servants, the advancements in magical quality of life alone could completely revolutionize any culture we brought it to. But we don’t do that. Why? Because the mortals would squander it? Because their lives don’t really matter?

It sure felt like their lives mattered to me.

I get in bed and find myself staring at the ceiling. I don’t know for how long, probably hours at least. Regardless, no answers come to me before I pass into slumber.