Epilogue:

I used to have dreams.

Grand dreams that one day I'd unite my brothers and sisters of Scipio Haedus. We'd reclaim our world and such a future would rise from that windy desert ruin that all would stop and gaze upon it with awe. We'd build the spires and gardens that in my mind's eye glitter and gleam, stark and tall and as fully realized today as they'd been the first time I'd heard the stories.

And we'd finally belong somewhere.

I used to have dreams, but they were the dreams of all young men. The hero, the conqueror. Righting wrongs and slaying monsters. I thought that if I could fix this one enormous wrong, that the rest could be forgiven. A means to an end, I told myself. All means to my ends.

I see now.

I read back through this journal and see so much . . . evil. The twisted justifications that lay under every decision. The only thing I can think of to explain why I didn't see it before is I had nothing good to hold against it. No contrast in our world of ever-darkening greys and blacks.

But now I do.

You.

Little sister, how I wish I'd taught you how to read and write. If only to satisfy my one selfish wish that someday you'd find this and maybe think kindly of me sometimes. In this bound bit of paper and glue, I speak to you as I once spoke to my father. I'm not even sure when the switch happened. I'm sure I could pinpoint it if I bothered to look, but that's not important. All I know is, here I can talk to you of all the things I cannot tell you person to person.

Not four hours ago, you almost died. Then, when you woke, I almost killed you. A kindness. A mercy. I wanted to give you peace. I wanted an end to your pain, an end to all the horror I felt every time I let you murder some other poor slave. Before all the killing turned you into something abominable. I can see the cracks now. You know hate now and you can use it, like any other weapon, in your hand.

But, ever the coward, I couldn't do it. I wonder, if I cut off my hand, will it stop feeling your throat against my palm? Your pulse thumping against my thumb? No, I think that memory is forever mine now. Spawning nightmares in which I didn't stop, in which I murder what has come to mean everything to me. My gorge rises.

I never thought I'd care so much for anyone. And in caring, hurt so much. That you can look at detestable me and say 'I love you, 'Gan' cuts me so deep. You shouldn't. I'm just as responsible as any for your situation, for all the agony your short life has delivered unto you.

You should hate me, but you say you love me instead. You say stay, I stay. I can't say no to you. Would that you'd realize that and demand I take you far, far away from here. For you, I think I would defy Silva. I hope I would anyway.

In you, I see so much courage. Do you know what you look like when you fight? Little you in your ragtag armor and messy hair that never gave up growing no matter how many times I cut it?

All that ceases to matter as soon as the bout starts. You become a whirling dervish of death with those knives in your hands. So fast, so confident in your element. And more, your face fills with such determination and . . . and joy. You look . . . free.

I can't deny that every time I put you in the pit, a tiny piece of me rejoiced at being able to look upon it again and again. How sick is that? I really don't know any more. My perception of such things is skewed.

So now I turn and look at you, asleep there in my bunk, bandaged and near destroyed, hurt deeper than just physically and I wonder what you might have been if you hadn't been born a slave. What incredible dreams you might have held for the future.

But sometimes, I look at our lives and a feeling that things may change comes over me. Perhaps your story won't end here.

We two are tied together in this tangled skein, little sister. I have the inkling that for one to be free, the other must die. I'll be damned before I let you be the one to fall.

Once, I had the dreams of young men.

Now, I only have the dreams of old men. To usher in the next hope, the next story. To help more than harm as the galaxy passes us by.

My story, my dream has ended, my people forgotten. They will not rise again, in all likelihood.

A thought that should fill me with despair, but I see now that none of it ever really ends. There is always a new dream.

You will do wonders.

I love you, Polaris.

-Your 'Gan

A/N: Ha, I always forget to put in an author's note until after I've published. Then, I go 'Dang it!' and do it. Anyway, I can't tell you guys how grateful I am that you read my stories, my musings on adventure and meaning and such. Not that I'm some celebrated philosopher or anything. I just like to share the stuff I think about.

Anyway, thank you for reading. Please review if you have the time.

P.S. I'm also thinking about a new arc from Celeste's POV. Call it a parallel tangent. I really hadn't intended to take it this far, but these characters won't let me go. They have their hooks in me good and deep. But I think that's a sign of something good. That's my hope anyway. I think I'll call it 'Mother'.