In the months to come I get pretty cozy at Desdemona's Paradigm. It never stops being weird to see Kairliina lounging around, having drinks, flirting with the bartender and the other girls. Even if she's just the Overlady rather than the Lady, she's still, well... herself. Beings like Kairliina feel like they exist on a different plane even when they're standing right next to me. Somewhere tumultuous and beyond reclaiming.

It breaks my psyche to see her on her knees giving the bartender moon-eyes while she collects semen for a spiked whiskey.

This being has transcended gods without becoming one. She was born wholly human and now is wholly demon. In assimilating the knowledge of Seurchraig she has become a living bridge between our space-age present, and bygone eras in the vast history of demons as an entire taxonomical class of entities.

And there she is, equal parts concentration and slutty excitement, giving Chesk a handy with the same well-honed technique as any other succubus.

I eventually ask Vost to talk about it. The instant she gets my drift, she pats my shoulder. "If you want to know Kai, talk to Kai."

I get it through my head that, while everything I've observed about Kairliina is technically true, the one who chooses to frame those observations as some kind of rift is me. Right. Obvious point to consider:

Why do I feel I need to keep myself separate from Kairliina?

Obvious answer: something about Kairliina embodies a path I know I'm going to take, but I'm not ready to let myself see it yet.

So... I just accept the weirdness as best I can. The optimal choice would be talking to her, yes. I don't trust myself to do that. So here's another vignette for me to consider: Maroj Fezzlen, succubus, wearing a sleeveless, low-cut white gown and drifting through the Lambent Quarter in deep thought.

She's pretty. I'm pretty. For the first time in this life, that feels like enough. And of course it's only now, in recognizing that I might have a tomorrow, after all, that yesterday becomes something I can risk letting myself feel. There's a reason that deep mourning always comes right on the heels of profound joy. Grief is a privilege I've only just regained.

All the insight to put these patterns into words, yet I'm as powerless as ever to change them. So as I walk forward through Machrae Diir, I let my mind drift back with the sands of time. I remember very little of my first life. I remember I coalesced from the starlit snows of a mountaintop in answer to the lonely dreams of a young shepherd. I was a pretty good wife. Almost as good a mother.

The who of it doesn't really matter. Someone brought war to our valley.

A demoness who loves a mortal knows the score from the start. I was prepared for the natural course from the moment I offered my love eternal youth, and he just kissed my brow and told me his soul would not last. He'd age while I stayed fresh. Fade, wrinkle, and finally pass. I knew all this. I made peace with it.

I'd linger for a while as matriarch of our little homestead. Eventually, perhaps when my great grandchildren came of age, I'd take a few months to drink deep of fond memories, sling a sack over my shoulder, and go seeking a new start. My family's death was meant to be a sunny day, a low wind on the heights, the tinkling of the flock's bells. A much-loved shape, winged and horned, pauses tearful-eyed in the portrait-frame of a rough wooden doorway.  She waves, wipes her eyes--and she's gone.

The road awaits.

Never in my darkest dreams did I imagine it would all be ripped away.

The gory details... those don't really matter. Blackened rooms, charred flesh, every little thing we made together broken or stolen. That's what the world of my birth made of my love and our little ones. I wasn't strong enough to protect them.

That is the eternal truth of Maroj Fezzlen.  No matter who I become, I will never be strong enough. It's already too late. It's been too late for many thousands of years.

I shroud myself in my wings and slump against a mist-veiled wall.

Wrap my arms around my knees. Pull them tight against my head.

And I weep. Endless, ugly, shaking sobs, alone on the smooth dark-blue promenade, at the edge of the Rift of Recompense, where the blue rays spill skyward. I've known ever since I got here where I was headed.

"I'm so sorry." A whisper like the storm tickling a crack in the roof we'll mend together, you and I, first thing tomorrow morning. "Mommy's so sorry..."

Light a candle, my love. We'll watch it side-by-side until the light goes dark. And even in shadow I will be warm for you--always.