[If the dead rise again, not as mindless puppets but as whole recreated versions of themselves, will they embrace Sonya? Will they tell Kanon that she mattered?

In the end it does seem hypocritical, doesn't it? Waltaquin doesn't flinch away from Psyche's hand, tears fresh on her face without an expression to match it. Her head and her heart feel a billion different things.]

I don't care if you carry it for me. [The words are dismissive but the intention behind it, she knows without a doubt now, the violence and kindness of giving Psyche this choice, is loving.] Tell the others if you need to. See if they will still allow me my part in Merlin's gambit. ... I wouldn't have found you so interesting, Psyche, if I ever thought you were too weak.

I want this to be finished. Is this person speaking to you now even myself? [When she closes her eyes there is nothing there but incomprehensible and unspeakable horror. That dark flame that guided her and ate and ate and ate at the altar of souls is going to lose against them. But, she too, is self-important. She will not lie down and die. She will not be caged. She will be reckless until she burns up, like gunpowder, not a star after all.]