Construct

Disclaimer + Notes: Fire Emblem is the property of Intelligent Systems, as is Limstella and everyone else. This is a product of my imagination. I'm doing a little touch-up, since old shit is old, but nothing too big has changed. Maybe more introspection on Limstella's part. Once again, review for content not grammar/spelling but if that floats your boat I don't care, shoot for it.

"I" is such selfish terminology.

"I" implies that one has a self, that one has knowledge of oneself, that one knows that one is "I.""My" entails ownership to "I," as does "mine." Furthermore, "you" are other "Is" that are not oneself. Names are another matter entirely. The only creatures that do not receive names are the drones, which are numbered.

How tiresome pronouns are.

"I am" is such a unique phrase. It suggests knowledge of condition, of being. How easily "I" refer to these thoughts occurring as "I."

"I am" fascinated with the concept of "I."

"I" do not have the right to call "myself" such a word. But I do anyway.

I am called Limstella. I am told I am heavenly, vile, perfection, abomination. I do as I am told. I am none of those things, for I cannot imagine how to accomplish those. I am limited in my capabilities.

I read. I comprehend very little, because I have nothing to comprehend against. The word "field" means nothing to one such as me. "Green field" is even worse. I know green. Green is trees, the pigment of underbrush of the thickets and woods. It is a soothing, peaceful thing, green. Therefore, a "field" is green, but still I have no understanding of the word. Is it a tree? A creature? Something I can hold in my hand? "Rolling green field" is hours upon hours of contemplation and the phenomenon called "headache."

I learn, which is the gathering of knowledge, very quickly and with ease. The "you" named "Nergal" tells me I am a masterpiece and learn by nature. Nergal praises my beauty, another foreign concept. What is beauty? Clearly, it is something that appeals. Beautiful is the adjective. "I am beautiful" is something that I accept, but am I really such a thing? My confusion is not appealing. I find no consolation in beauty when I have no standard of beauty to measure myself against. So what does the word "beauty" mean to me? Is it a power? Sonia is beautiful; Sonia repeats that again and again. I do not find Sonia appealing. It pains me to associate myself with Sonia, or having the same qualities as Sonia when I detest Sonia's qualities. But this does not include the possibility that Sonia is wrong. Then what is "beauty?" Language is confusing. I learn because I do not understand, not because it is my nature.

How often Nergal refers to strange, foreign ideas! Beauty merely is the first of many confusing concepts. The "you" named Nergal must not understand that I cannot even guess at these mysterious "dragons," "Black Fang," and "Athos."

There is one thing, though, that Nergal often speaks of and I understand, a something of "quintessence." Quintessence is a strange thing, too, but I know it. I do not know how. I cannot describe it. Is this the "instinct of animals?" I do not even know what "animals" is.

"Ugh," I utter. I am reading again.

Nergal possesses a vast collection of books. This is called a "library" and I am fascinated with it, too. Libraries are easy to understand, even if their contents are not. Currently, I am trying to decipher the idea of a "dog." It is not a successful attempt and I am weary of trying. I read of "shepherds" (another impossible undertaking; what is a "sheep?") and I am to instantly understand that they use dogs to herd? Isn't a "herd" a grouping of similar organisms? Why is it now a verb? "Ugh" does not even begin to convey my frustration!

I stand from where I am crouched in a corner. The muscles in my feet and calves are sore and so I stretch them, awkwardly, one at a time. It is cumbersome. Perhaps stretching both at the same time would be more effective. I resolve to try that next time and walk (I am fascinated with walking as well, but not as much; it loses its appeal after long distances) to the haphazard scattering of books on the empty, dry floor of the Gate. Nergal leaves them here to wait for the "you" named Nergal to return. I read them in Nergal's absence. Nergal is delighted with that.

Sometimes, though, reading is tiring, simply because I have to stop and imagine everything as described and I know so very little.

Instead of switching books, I stand very still. I try very hard to imagine the shepherds of Bern. A crook. A lamb. An ewe, a ram. What could these be? I need a better teacher than a book. Books assume a certain amount of knowledge that I do not possess.

There are no teachers on Valor, this place I am at, other than Nergal. Valor is an island, which means it is land surrounded by the ocean. The ocean is green, but it is also blue and grey and smells wonderful. Valor is cursed, which means that no other "yous" except Nergal come here. They are "afraid."

"They" is yet another curious word. It means "you" but many "yous" since apparently "yous" is not a word. The "you" that is called Sonia uses it often. Most often "they" is a "Reeds." The "you" called Sonia spends the time away from Valor with they, Reeds.

Lost in the conflict of pronoun usage versus my limited understanding of the world, I do not take heed to my surrounds. Often, I am so enthralled in my own "thoughts" that I begin to walk in purposeless directions throughout the ancient corridors—this is called "pacing," as in "Limstella, don't pace so." Is it so surprising that I am jarred to reality by the voices of they, Sonia and Nergal? I remain silent, for the conversation is not mine and I have no reason to join. But I do not leave, either. Nergal's displeasure of Sonia is rare and a curiously alluring event to witness.

"I'm trying, Lord Nergal! Believe me, none have ever put forth an effort such as I! I am close, so close I can feel it. Ten long years and yet—!"

"Silence."

"Lord Nergal—!"

"Silence! I handpicked that flea-ridden batch of Bernese mongrels, ignorant, self-righteous beasts they were. The time is at hand, Sonia. I can feel it. Only a few scant days until the moon is aligned with the Gate . . . you have until then to completely secure Brendan Reed and the Fang for me. If I cannot find a proper source, the war they bring about will certainly provide."

"I . . . see, my lord. I shall not fail you! Never."

"You have five days before you must return for the first summoning. I must have a specimen before we can come 'close' to fulfilling my purposes."

I can imagine Sonia. Sonia has long dark hair, like me and glassy gold eyes that narrow, most often at me. The "you" called Sonia is disagreeable to everyone but Nergal. I gather that before I came to be, Sonia was Nergal's pet. Did Sonia ever wonder as I wonder? By Sonia's behavior, I can discern nothing of her life before I came into being. I can imagine Nergal, too, standing there, imperiously over Sonia. Nergal is wrapped in black, head half consumed in a curious black lump. I am to understand that the eye beneath is injured, or so Ephidel says. Nergal's hair clings close to Nergal and is green, but not particularly soothing.

Injury is a harm done unto an I by another you. What you would harm someone such as Nergal? I can't imagine such a thing.

There is a pillar that I am standing behind. I am quiet and do not speak. Consequently, they do not hear. I wonder what "Brendan Reed and the Fang" is. I recognize the word "Reed." I have never heard Sonia speak directly of them or any significant you beneath the plural term they. Sonia speaks of them only to Nergal. Sonia does not talk to me. Sonia does not associate with me. I do not know why.

I bite my lip, watching Sonia kneel reverently for Nergal. I've never done that. I wish Sonia would talk to me. The "you" called Sonia is the only one, other than Ephidel, who learns like I do. Who really learns. There are others like me, who look like me and act like I do, but do not learn like me. They are drones to do Nergal's and Sonia's and my bidding. But Sonia hates me and Ephidel is always gone. Besides, Ephidel is too arrogant to talk to for very long.

Nergal dismisses Sonia and disappears in the opposite direction. Sonia looks uncomfortable, distraught, upset. I know many words for that expression, because it is the only one I see.

Sonia notices me and snaps.

"Limstella, you little sneak. Step out from behind that rock, this instant. Honestly, you're twice as annoying as Nino and the two boys combined," Sonia gripes. Nino is a "daughter" of Sonia. A daughter appears to be a constant annoyance to someone. I have never met a daughter. I do not think, from what I have heard, I should like to.

I do not speak, but I do take a small step forward. I hold my hands to my chest and look at Sonia's face. Perhaps Sonia does not like my expression. Sonia has slapped me before, for such an offense.

"What, puppet?" Sonia scoffs. Sonia turns away, Sonia's heels clicking on the stony ground of the Gate. The Gate is massive. The Gate is Nergal's obsession. Sonia seems small compared to the Gate. Does Sonia not realize that we are incomparable to the scale of Nergal's goals? Even I, in my ignorance, know this. "Huh, as I thought. Nothing to say. You're not even remotely alive."

"Alive" is a good word too. I am alive in the sense that I am animated, but "alive" seems to have some mysterious connotation that means that I am not it, according to the disagreeable Sonia. Perhaps I am "lively" which is specifically interpreted as "animated." I do not say that, though. I am silent, and Sonia leaves by simple teleportation. I am alone with my thoughts and my words. It is very quiet, but I don't mind. Quiet doesn't bother me at all.

I turn around and return to the library.

..0..

"Time" is a relative concept. "Time" happens to people who pay attention to it. I pay attention to time in what I learn. New words, new books. It takes time, for instance, to read a book. Especially a book of Anima, which even I, a "prodigy," find tedious. Anima is primarily natural magic, which means many references to the ever-popular "fields" and "animals."

There is also "year," and "day," and "hour."

For example, it takes me perhaps an "hour" to read a book. There are twenty-four of these hours in a "day," which is twenty-four books, if I were never to physically tire or become "bored" (yet another excellent concept, if not a pleasurable one) with books. Therefore, in one "year" I could presumably read eight-thousand seven-hundred and sixty books.

But the muscle in my arms aches after maybe two or three hours and cramps not long after that. The words begin running together. I become weary of trying to picture people and places I've never seen. I read, but my imagination cannot possibly produce images of things I've never seen at all.

I'm not sure how many days went by since Sonia left for "Bern," which is an enchanting place that I'd like to see. It is full of mountains. Mountains, as Ephidel haughtily described to me, are massive lumps of rock and stone and sometimes molten red fire, deep inside. They are so high, the snow touches them all year, although I have no clue about "snow." After the description of mountains, I keep to myself. Ephidel is very difficult to listen to, at those times, without becoming indignant or perhaps even angry.

When I do not read, Nergal allows me to wander the isle. I know Valor very well. It is all thicket and sand and stone monuments. "I like," which is a phrase denoting a particular affection to an object or action, to go down to the sand and watch the sea come in, over and over again. Nergal asks me why I do this. I say, "to learn" rather than "I like." Nergal doesn't like it when I say "I like." Not at all.

Accordingly, I will learn today. Nergal tells me not to swim in the ocean. I wonder why. I do not ask, because whoever I ask will be displeased at having to stop their task and tell me. Besides, the only two here I could ask are Nergal and Ephidel, and both are unpleasant when interrupted.

Instead of swimming myself, I shall push a log of driftwood, which are trees that by some chance fell into the sea, and observe its movements. The log is very heavy, but I am stronger than its weight and it is in the water again without another say. Hurriedly, I rush to the vantage of a tall ledge, carved by constant rushing water. That is "erosion."

The log just floats. I am astounded. Surely it would sink, being so heavy? But no. I return to my hierarchy of elements. The log is comprised of earth, which is all things that are neither water nor fire nor air. I can rap it sharply with my knuckles; I can push it across sand; I can even abrase myself upon it. It is heavy and earthen on the outside. Perhaps, within, it is comprised of something much lighter?

"Oh!" I say, lighting upon such an idea. Perhaps it is full of air? That wouldn't account for the heaviness on land, though, and that can't be it. I stamp my foot, something Sonia does when she's dissatisfied. The log is floating away quite rapidly. Well, my initial question has been solved at least. Nergal instructs me not to swim in the sea because I will float away forever.

I imagine briefly Sonia and Ephidel walking into the sea and floating away forever. I banish that image. Without them, I'd have no picture of places foreign to this island, regardless of their temperament.

Still resting upon the grassy ledge, I lie on my belly and watch the blue-grey waves. Today is foggy and damp. It seeps through my clothing and dew makes the cloth stick to my skin. The feeling is only a little uncomfortable. The white froth of the waves makes interesting patterns. Enraptured, the hours pass me by like minutes. It is very dark before I realize it has even passed.

I stand, my front soaked and damp. I am cold, but it doesn't bother me unduly. My body is not always my first concern, unlike Nergal or the other thinking ones. I am more like the drones, I sometimes theorize. Injury and discomfort are insignificant. Perhaps if my brain was injured, I would be concerned or my heart, which maintains me. Nergal is careful to maintain me. For Nergal's sake, I avoid injury. My eyesight is good at night, which is fortunate. I open my eyes wide. This is the first time I have ever strayed so late from the Gate.

There is nothing to fear on Valor, because only Nergal and the drones live here. I have read about fearsome, man (Limstella?) -eating rhinoceroses, but where ever they are, they are not here. I know this because I have been all about the island and not seen a one. I am late, I reason, which is why I run all the way back.

Nergal is waiting for me, not in the least perturbed. Nergal puts a hand on my face. That hand is warm. I assume I must be cold.

"The time has come," Nergal says. "Limstella, I need you to fulfill a purpose for me."

The hand is infused with quintessence. I close my eyes and receive it. I breathe it in deeply. My eyes open. There is no light in the Gate at all. It is deathly cold. I blink and the world shifts.

I do not like quintessence. It is more than "like" could ever denote. I do not know the word to describe how I regard such loveliness. Everything is more brilliant. More delicate. I see the world in strings. The thickest tangles are the Gate. This must be beauty. It appeals to me so.

I turn to Nergal. I will need something greater.

"More . . ." I breathe, weak and shaking with this amazing light. Nergal frowns, the lines becoming deep in Nergal's face. Nergal signals with a beckoning hand and Ephidel steps forth. I had neglected Ephidel. I see Nergal's creation in the light of quintessence. It is obvious. Every creature here is made by Nergal. The threads composing Ephidel are limp.

The threads of the creature, bound at Ephidel's feet, are not. They are vibrant. Pulsating. Warm. Those strings are the "alive" Sonia is so fond of accusing me not to be. I look to Sonia, hidden in the corner with a troupe of drone-retainers. Sonia is no more alive than them.

I kneel. My hands are at the creature's face. A man, whose face I have never seen before. He is awake. He is a "he," not just a you. I was incorrect all this time. It comes to me so suddenly. I look to Nergal. Nergal is ancient. His threads are thin and weak, augmented by the same power that possesses me now. I look up at Ephidel. "He" is made in the image of a man. Sonia is not. The opposite, "she." She is made in the image of a woman. The words come to me so, so suddenly. Is this "revelation?"

I lean down and take the face of the man in my hands. Curious, I brush the hair from his face. He has light blue eyes, but it is hard to tell. I do not think he knows not to be afraid. I smile and he struggles. He bellows foul words that mean "anger, displeasure, or inconvenience." I whisper in his ear and draw back, carrying with me his quintessence. The man relaxes. Before, he was tense, flailing his body to no avail.

What a power! Even more clear were the threads. I could barely see my own hand through them. I moved too slowly, as if through thick mud. The quintessence is a green unlike anything else. This must be a "field," I decide. I push at it, and it rolls aside to admit me.

Nergal commands me, and I realize that above everything, I must obey. The quintessence is his. I am his. I am controlled by the strings that I see, ultimately pulled by him. Nergal does not see them, but his very nature—his weak, frail, human nature—allows him to manipulate me like a puppet.

Just as Sonia says. So this is a "puppet." Humans control puppets. Puppets kill humans. Puppets open doors to different places.

The Gate is large. I am small. I raise my arms and lower them, ripping at the strings tangling there. There is no subtlety. I have no subtlety. The Gate becomes less real, more brilliant. It is quintessence. It shifts, ebbing like waves. Nergal enters. There are drones, infused with quintessence they will use up. The drones will shrivel away, without any semblance of life. I, too, will shrivel away, if I continue. Nergal desires for it to remain open.

He returns. The strings twist and make way for something enormous.

They are giants. They fill the Gate easily. They are two, chillingly cold and ancient.

The strings take hold. The strings across the Gate are different. The strings holding up there are not the same. They are looser. Stronger. The strings of this world constrain upon the Dragons Nergal has summoned forth and they shrink into creatures, foul humanoid creatures, such as myself.

One is small. He is wise in the way that is obtainable only by worry, fear, concern, steeled panic. Hardship is etched in his manner and his face. The larger one is older, female, "she." I am fascinated with her. She is my height and her silvery green hair is of my length. Her eyes are a fantastic red. I loosen my grip on the strings and the Gate closes. The world is less glorious now that most of the quintessence is gone. Sonia's face writhes in distaste.

I know so much more now.

At Nergal's command, I help the female stand. She is lost, and confused, which means "not understanding the situation one has found oneself in." The male stands, adjusting to the difficulty immediately. He places an arm around the female, protective. He bares his teeth to me.

I wait for orders.

"Forgive me," Nergal bows his head. Sonia is even more disgusted. "These are my trusted servants. You may be assured that they would never harm you unless provoked."

"We should go back," the male said, urgently. "Ninian, please. Open the Gate and let us go home."

The female called "Ninian" turned her head, this way and that. I doubt she could see very well at all. She strained to look upon my face. I am fascinated with her, too. She is much different from Sonia, although they are both fashioned after women.

Ninian hobbles toward the Gate. Her balance is bad, and she tumbles; the male is too small to effectively catch her. I hold out my arms and steady her. The male mistakes it for capture. So does Nergal.

"You cannot return now," Nergal says. He takes a step forward. How convenient the word "he" is! I remind myself now is not the time to become consumed in thought. Ninian is trapped in my hold. I am stronger than I seem, for the male tries to break her free and I merely shrug him away.

"Let us go! Ninian, we must flee," insists the male, clawing with his short, brittle nails at the sleeve of my white shirt. She stares up into my eyes, petrified.

Nergal laughs. Ninian begins to sob.

"Limstella, draw forth the dragon stone," he commands. I give him a level stare. Dragon stone? Never mind, I oblige him anyway. Perhaps it will make itself known as I obey. I trust my body, which knows many things instinctively, to perform this mysterious action.

I place my fingertips on Ninian's forehead with purpose. The male shrieks out, "No!" Ephidel maneuvers behind him and holds him there. Ephidel may be stronger than I, for no amount of struggling could free the little male.

I have to quiet all my thoughts, now. She is scared and whimpering. My hair falls on her face, as it is long and unbound. In a moment, I hold something in my hand. I am unsure of its origin, but the action seemed natural to me. The object is round and smooth, a milky blue sphere.

"As you wished, Lord Nergal," I offer the stone to him without hesitation. The little male is cursing us both. Somehow, Nergal's intentions are not to his liking and he voices his displeasure with zeal. Ephidel strikes him, hard enough that the little male loses consciousness. Ninian gasps for breath and suffers a small fit.

It is all as Nergal commanded.

..0..

Many books later, they awake as the sun climbs just above the trees. I am seated not far from their little pallets of spare black cloak and cloth. Although my presence is unnecessary, I have developed a fascination with the two creatures, who are unlike anything I have ever seen.

The room Nergal has chosen for them is the least deteriorated in the Gate. Most things here are crumbling, but here it is not so bad. The floor is smooth and tiled with a detailed mosaic that hasn't quite faded yet. The walls, too, are painted, even if it is in worse condition than the mosaic. Everything here is massive. The entry is left wide and open, guarded by four drones of my coloring and shape. They are motionless.

The male awakens first.

I watch intently as he blinks, moaning and rolling. Very suddenly, his eyes, a shade of crimson that I have never seen before, focus and he is alert. Again he bares his teeth, although I am sure the action is futile. The teeth he has are quite blunt and tiny, besides. He realizes this and leans back, away from me.

"Who are you?" he demands. It is not as Nergal demands, sure and commanding; the little male seems far more . . . desperate. "Ninian, quickly! Please wake up, Ninian!"

"No," I say. My voice is hoarse from disuse, I suppose, and it frightens him. "She sleeps so peacefully. Do not disturb her yet."

"Ninian! Wake up!" he ignores my counsel and shakes her awake. She is immediately frightened. As she sits up, she wraps her arms around herself, lost and panicked.

"Nils? Oh, God, Nils, what have I done?" Ninian begins to weep almost instantly. Nils leans over and embraces her. He looks my way. His gaze is venomous.

"You've done nothing wrong, Ninian," he reassures her. "I should have been more cautious. We had no idea. Please, sister . . ."

"What is 'sister?'" I interject. They both tense. Nils takes it upon himself to answer me.

"Ninian is my sister," he says, guardedly. "We have the same mother and father."

"What are those?" I ask him as second time. For the second time, he answers.

"Our parents. They gave birth to us."

"What is 'birth?'"

"No more," Nils shakes his head. He eyes the drones standing guard at the mammoth doorway. "Answer my questions. Who are you? Why were we brought here? Who are they?"

"I am Limstella," I say. It is only fair, I imagine, that he has questions as well as I. "You have been brought here to fulfill Lord Nergal's wishes. They are his servants."

"Let us go!" he pleads, although it is as desperate and angry as anything he has said so far. "We will die if you keep us."

"I cannot," I say. "Lord Nergal has commanded your presence. You must stay. What is 'die?' And birth."

Nils weighs his options. He regards me anxiously, unsure of my constant barrage of questions. I stare at him levelly. I cannot help it if I do not understand some things.

"Birth is the beginning of life," Ninian responds for him. Nils seems shocked. She looks up through her glittery green hair, which is scattered roughly across her face and shoulders. Appealing. Is Ninian beautiful? "And death is the end of it. To be consumed by death is to die."

"I do not understand," I say, tilting my head, as if by looking at her from a different angle would clarify her words in the slightest. "Life is animation of the body, to the meanest extent. Rocks are not alive because they are inanimate. The wind is not alive because it has no body. So says the Treatise on the Nature of Anima Magicks, volume four, by Cornelias d'Urtuia. But it seems that there is something more. Are you saying that life has beginning and end? Will there come a time when animation ceases? How does it happen? How does it restart?"

Perhaps Sonia is wrong; perhaps I am alive. I would like to prove her incorrect for once. Ninian shakes her head, trying to answer everything I have asked her.

"There is more to life than animation . . . it begins by a miracle and when it ends . . ." Ninian pauses. There is an impediment to her answer. I am patient and silent. Pressured, she finishes. "And when it ends . . . it can't be restarted . . . oh, Nils . . .!"

She is very delicate, it seems, and begins to sob into her brother's arms. He scowls at me.

"Stop it!" he scolds me. "You're upsetting her. Go away, let us be."

"I want to talk to you," I say in my defense.

"Talk to them, if you want to talk. Let us alone," Nils refers to the drones standing guard. His tone is scornful.

"They don't understand," I protest. Nils turns away from me and whispers comfortingly to his sister. I do not try to speak anymore.

I stand and return to the library, to re-read d'Urtuia's Treatise with my new understandings.

Ninian and Nils do not become any more welcoming to my presence, although I visit them often. I try, also to speaking to the drones. To my surprise, if I repeat something enough, they will return my own words to me. I have named my favorite, a drone in the shape of a man, "Denning," after the author of Ingald, which is a storybook of many stories. The titular story concerns the legend of Ingald, son of Barigan.

I tried to show Ingald to Ninian and Nils, but the venture was unsuccessful. Nils, in a fit of rage, ripped out a handful of pages and it was only by the interference of my Denning and some other nameless drones that I managed to wrest the ruined pages from him. After that, I instructed the drones guarding them to say, "It is inadvisable to tear pages from books," at various intervals throughout the day. Nils is difficult to manage sometimes.

Nergal is not at the Gate very often, only now and again to distribute quintessence unto me and his private stores. The "Black Fang" has become a common topic while he is here, and often he refers to it with some pride.

"The Black Fang is under my influence now, my precious Limstella," he remarked merrily one day, as I was arranging the making of a new drone. The mold is often the same. "Sonia has done very well, don't you think?"

"Yes, Lord Nergal," I reply dutifully. His happiness is mine, after all, even if I have no idea what he's speaking of and have no motivation to praise Sonia's work. The empty, stone laboratory is occupied only by the two of us and a group

"And Ephidel's work in Lycia is shaping up beautifully. I have no doubt that we shall have some lovely new quintessence for you! What was the last? Oh, yes, the Count of Eingles," he smirks as he concocts the necessary mixtures. "The Etrurians have always been fools, even that insufferable Elimine. I saw her once, preaching to the masses. She was a fool, too foolish to have such remarkable quintessence as she did. Ah, I could feel it emanate from her like water from a fountain."

I have read Elimine's work. Most of it makes very little sense. Sanctity of life and the holy path are ideas that have no meaning to me. I take the potions that Nergal offers me and pour them into the mold, where they bubble and expand. The color is a nauseous brown. I pull down the mold's lid.

"Why is it, dear Limstella, that the greatest quintessence is harbored in such self-righteous fools?" Nergal asks me. It is rhetorical, but I answer anyway.

"Quintessence gathers where it is needed," I say as the mold slides into the oven. I give one final push and back away as two drones close the great doors and light the fire with a spell.

Nergal laughs, amused by my explanation.

"What a clever little creature you are," he reaches out and ruffles my hair with a brittle hand. I am glad to have pleased someone, at least. I place a hand on the tome of Anima magic on the stone tabletop and direct my other hand in the direction of the oven. With my efforts, the time of process is halved and another drone awakes. There is a special feeling, helping Nergal with his work.

Ephidel, when he returns to report, has become insufferable. He is far too arrogant, speaking of places like Laus, and Pherae. Ephidel gloats of how he has the favor of several great marquesses. A marquess is a ruler of a vast territory, and has much control over the humans there. Soon after Ephidel and his condescension leave, I ask Nergal if I could meet a marquess, one day.

He merely smiles and then vanishes. As much as I live to please Nergal, it displeases me when he teleports without any warning.

In his absence, I go to visit the siblings. They spend most of their days alone together, in their prison. It is dark and silent in the Gate. At least outside, there is the sound of the wind through the trees and the waves upon the sand. There is a feeling in my liver again, this time twisting me to "pity" the two. "Pity" was explained to me by Nils himself, in another scornful tantrum.

I stop at the entry. Their ears are quite sharp, and the two are alert. Nils stares me down rebelliously while Ninian cowers nearby. Nils is by far the most aggressive sibling, despite being younger. He protects his sister with a fervor.

"What do you want?" Nils says guardedly. He is never unalert, it seems. He stands, garbed in the black and gold garments of Nergal's servants. They hang loosely on him.

"Isn't it dark here?" I reply innocently. "Ninian looks sallow. That is unhealthy. I have heard that . . . sunshine is good for the health."

My grasp on the concept of "health" is arguably weak, but it rings true in Nils' mind. Ninian is even weaker than before and she spends most of her time sleeping. I am concerned that she will not be able to serve her purpose to Lord Nergal if her state deteriorates any further.

"So?" Nils asks.

"I go to the ocean at this time of day," I explain, without hesitation. "Would the two of you like to join me?"

Nils becomes more agreeable outside. His first questions: "Where are the birds? Why are there no insects? Are there no people on this island? Any life? At all?"

"Nothing such as those things exist here," I say. He is silent. Ninian is also silent, but for another reason. I can only imagine that she is enjoying the beauty of the island, as I do.

..0..

Ninian's complexion becomes fuller and less pale. Although her health improves, I continue her long walks outside, except during bouts of foul weather, which are often on the foggy island of Valor.

I allow Ninian and Nils to wander. There is nothing here, in this empty place to endanger them. They trace the beach, all along it, gathering strips of driftwood. It is comical, to see little Nils and delicate Ninian haul a piece almost as large as the two combined. They bind them on the shore, beneath the little precipice where I stand watch.

"What are you doing?" I ask, with no avail. They pretend not to notice me. I quit asking without fuss. I am not Sonia or Ephidel, to protest their solitary behavior.

I am deeply immersed in Ingald, perched on a flat, broad rock suitable for such a purpose as reading. Ninian and Nils are hefting another giant driftwood piece. This is my fifth re-reading; I have to be watchful of the loose pages, rebound to the best of my ability. The stories are familiar to me as my own hands, but even so, I become enthralled each time, following the adventures of the Grey Knight in the "arctic" lands of Ilia (I imagine it to be just like Valor, only colorlessly white. White grass, white leaves, white trees, etc. At least, that how it is described.)

There is much I don't really understand (what is a "farm?"), including old dilemmas (many, many references to the enigmatic concept of a "field.") I ignore the scenery, though, and follow the story, which by much guessing and just inventive imagination, I have put together. It is the only storybook in the entirety of Nergal's library.

Logically, by the time I look up from the book, it is late. I can see stars on the horizon. I fear for Ninian; she is frail, especially in cold weather. I close my book gingerly, and vault over the edge of the cliff to check on them. I bend my knees as my boots sink into the packed, wet sand. The mess of driftwood was gone. The sea came in. It had washed away the tracks of the heavy . . . "raft."

I think of my log of driftwood, the day they arrived. Ninian and Nils have floated away into the sea. And what is the word? It is my "fault."

I hold Ingald to my chest.

What have I done?