cradle
The memory leakage doesn't end with Aionios lives.
Ashera has the strangest dreams.
The horrific memories she's grown used to: the axes at her neck, the blades through her belly, the taste of blood--never as bitter as the taste of meaningless death. No, the strange dreams are the not horrific ones.
The ones where Ashera is smaller than even a first termer. Where there's a man and a woman with wrinkles under their eyes who hold her, cradle her, patch her scraped knees. Where there's an older girl who brushes her hair. Where they all say, Love you, Ashera.
Love you. Words unheard outside of those dreams.