signet ring

Glimmer will readily admit that the Liberators piss her right the spark off. They make her so fundamentally irritated, so itchy in her flaming soul, that "spark", which usually expletes all it needs to and generally much more than that, causing snootily politer soldiers to tut, doesn't even half cover it. Maybe if her hair were set afire on the regular, they'd see, how her loyalty burns, burns, burns.

Obviously she's not opposed to authority figures. The Consuls, and the Queens, and even the Commanders have all set up a system that works, for what it is. Everything makes sense - they only have ten years, so everything sparking better make sense! There's no time for stupid distractions like the Liberators are making.

Glimmer hates to concede, but since she's so close, what the hell? She'll concede. What they're doing is probably important. Still, Glimmer supposes, on a solid throughline, thick as a Feris-gut string singed with ether, if she's already spent her whole life fighting for the consul, then can't she just get what's owed to her? What she's earned?

She doesn't buy that they can do it in time for her, with or without her help. She doesn't buy that there's anything she can give except her life, since he seems to want his hand on it so bad. She doesn't buy that Rex knows better, that anyone knows better - never mind best - for her except for the soloist herself.

When she falls, weak-kneed, to the song of her queen and exaltation, Glimmer notices anew its melancholy; gleans the idle notes of what it is to die for herself, rather than by prospection. Not all that glorious, to experience. Probably better to watch. If you've earned it. If you've got a stake.

She knows Rex had wanted nothing less than to watch her come home. Still, she kinda wishes he'd seen it. Would he have been...proud?