Solo Log: Fifteen Seconds

**Winter 30-something, after Resal, 501 AOV**

He knows.

*He knows.*

Cleone's face stings, courtesy of the harshest scrubdown she's ever done in her life. Removing her makeup as soon as they had a free moment on the ship hasn't helped as much as she hoped it would, thick concealer sponged away to reveal the shapes and lines marking her as the person Nicodemus has been waiting twenty-two years for.

(And what was the *point*, two hours a day for seventeen years and it took less than fifteen seconds for him to see through it.)

The sting feels good, though. The sharpness keeps her present. Keeps her angry, and angry is better than scared.

Cleone wants to scream. Wants to throw things. Wants to make a mess, be a mess, show the world she's so unpalatable Nicodemus will never want her back. But that's a waste of time and energy, says a more efficient part of her brain, and that's how she ends up fiddling with the materials she'd bought for Kasavarina’s pendant.

Jewelry has been a comforting sort of hobby, she thinks as she twists wire and threads cord. She'll never be good enough to draw the attention of a queen, but she'd put her all into making Marcel and Dreues' rings and she imagines her satisfaction when she'd finally gotten them right had some echoes of Emrys in them.

She'd meant what she said to Kasavarina. Being a deva comes with a heavy burden to balance, the weight of the eladrin race's fate never completely gone from her conscience for all Cleone herself had been born hundreds of years after her first life fought in the war.

But it's also a comfort and a gift: remembering how to work in a smithy had led her to Charles, who'd seen her curiosity about an unholy trade and pushed her to seek it out. The vestiges of Paola's uncertain identity and the second Paolo's determination to avoid her fate had driven her to broaden her horizons at the RHC. Emrys' skills have allowed her to make lasting things for the people she loves, and to give Kasavarina something to hold onto that her past self never had.

And then there's Alastor.

Alastor, who killed people without regret.

Alastor, who was betrayed and murdered.

Alastor, whose vague remnants of memory had filled Cleone with dread even as she put on the Arc of Reida in hopes of learning from his past.

Cleone knows the platitudes: every life had its good and bad. None were perfect, but none were complete evil either. Alastor is a part of her as much as any other life. It's not fair to treat him differently from the rest. But as they approach Crysillyir, it's ever harder to forget the day she first stepped into the capital and realized *I remember, I killed somebody here.*

Ever harder to forget the man in the mirror in the vision at the Ziggurat of Apet. *"Could it be that you're really afraid of understanding me?"*

And ever since that dream last spring, a gentle smile and a dagger in her chest. *"I want you to come back to me when you become a better person."*

She doesn't know how she feels about Alastor anymore, how much of her fear is of him and how much is of Nicodemus. But she is afraid, and angry, and she has no idea what she can do anymore to feel in control again.

Cleone ends up sprawled out on her bed, once her fingers start aching too much to continue with delicate work. She reads a book to Floyd instead, a worn novel about children in a distant future, and toys with the pendant she'd made as a sister to Kasavarina’s.

Hoya stops by at some point. So does Mona. Cleone appreciates the effort, even if she can't repay them with coherent sentences that aren't printed on a page.

Now that the rage has faded, Floyd's weight on her stomach and the press of thin wire and hard crystal against her palm are much-needed reminders. Her friends - and Kasavarina - had been there to protect her, even when Nicodemus gave his order (*"Don't kill that one"*) and everything battered her to the point of blackout.

She doesn't know what to say or what to do that will make any difference to her situation. There's no undoing those fifteen seconds. But…

She still has that pill Delft gave her. (She double checks. Yeah, it's there.)

Marcel and Gatria know what to do, if it comes down to her life or her freedom. (Gatria, she believes, understands not wanting to go back.)

Kasavarina had stepped between her and Nicodemus without a thought. (Cleone remembers the hard look on Kasavarina’s face when she'd woken up: *"We'll make sure he doesn't get you.")*

There are no answers here, but there are measures. Cleone hopes desperately that it's enough.

She keeps reading, Floyd wiggling on her stomach whenever her tone shifts. Cleone continues to exist, and for the time being she is herself.