Chapter Text
Artesia is fine. That's all she can expect to be, when she chose this for herself. Chose to return to Zeon and take control. She has to be.
Maybe she would be happier if she didn't, but that wasn't an option. That never would be an option. There was never a world where Sayla Mass could remain.
(She has to ignore the dreams where Sayla watches the woman she loves marry someone else. Where a broadcast of Casval rocks the military she left so wholly. Where she cares for a girl separated from her own brother.)
Artesia Deikun was the only one that could make Zeon a country people can actually be proud of. That's what Challia and Ramba say. And who is she to tell them they're wrong, when they remained and she did not?
"Your Majesty," Challia's assistant, a pretty young woman called Comoli, pulls her from her thoughts. "Are you alright?"
"Just fine," she lies through her teeth, praying Comoli truly is on the lower end of the Newtype, lest she know it's a lie. "I'm just thinking, Comoli. Care to join me?"
"I couldn't, you're surely--"
"I'm not busy, so, please," Artesia... Or rather, Sayla says. "Join me, even if just for a moment."
Comoli nods and moves to sit across from her, and maybe for a moment, she really is content.