All Lyta needed was a single, soft trace of his being. Anything. Anything at all, and he would be satisfied.

There was nothing.

She ripped herself apart searching herself for the faintest murmur. Clawed at the corners of her mind for the hum of warmth that was so distinctly him.

All the dark corners that the Corps taught her to hide secrets in held only cold desperation; all the submerged desires of releasing dark and bloody and beautiful violence with her thoughts were clear and silent beneath the surface.

She treaded the strange places of her mind that had been only his for so long. Her thoughts echoed in silence, and she felt an intruder within her own being.

All of her was her, and it hurt. She was incomplete without the other stretching her senses and soul.

She had been Chosen.

Now she was alone.

Another came, of course, but he was not the same.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't here. I was doing what he told me to do," she plead, holding back tears burning with fear.

She knew he would not believe her.

And all the open wounds she had left torn in her mind were forgotten when he made his first cut.