[ Those stolen eyes, beautiful in another face and ugly in the human's, are horrible to look at. Which is why Alecto fixes her own gaze on them, unblinking. The horror focuses her, helps her remember why she is angry. It is so easy to get lost in that anger, an anger suited for ten billion, an anger meant for two gods. It is like a sea, a thing that Alecto loves.

The human covers her hand. Alecto turns her palm upwards, so that she can weave her ugly fingers between the human's, and she digs her nails into the skin hard enough to draw blood. If she holds on any less, Alecto knows, she will lose herself entirely.

(Is that such a bad thing?) ]

It is no good. [ Alecto agrees, for once. ] There are no good things left.

[ But that is not important. The human needs to be quiet, so Alecto can focus. It is so hard to tell a human a story, to condense a world into beginning and end, to wrap it up in order. But that is what John did to her, isn't it? He made her a story, and now it is Alecto's job to tell it in the human's language. ]

There used to be. There was a world, once. [ Alecto's voice is halting, uncharacteristically hesitant. This is not her language. Still, she presses on. ] I was sick. John was helping me. He loved me. I loved him. I picked him to change.

[ If a thing like her could sound desperate, she sounds like it now. ]

He changed me, too. I am not supposed to be like this. It hurts. I still love him.