This is the second half of the dream sequence. I reiterate my note that this is coherent only within its own dream logic. Since, obviously few are bothering to read this, I am grateful to those of you who take the time to give it a look. In spite of the lack of encouragement, I shall almost certainly include it in the novel – if I ever finish it.

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Part Two

The man with the cane made his painfully slow way up the endless flights of stairs to the level at which lifts were active. From there, he emerged into the temple proper, all dim with candlelight and fogged with incense. He passed unnoticed by the priests standing like swathed pillars in their muffling robes. Statuary littered the site, forests of statues looming over the scattered groups of worshippers, each herded by its own gliding cicerone muttering through his layers of collars and hoods. In the center of the sanctuary, standing apart from the rest, was a colossus, heroic in its pose and attitude. It depicted a man – his weight resting on his left leg which seemed about to propel him upwards, his left hand holding a great sword above his head as though pointing to the heavens, the right hand extended as if blessing the crowds gathered beneath the pedestal, his hair loose and lifted in a cloud around his head which was tilted so as to gaze ever upward with a beatific expression. The huge figure was nude with a slight suggestion of machinery about the left arm and leg.

With an abrupt shock, Nooj realized that the figure was meant to be him, transfigured and made divine. Carved on the base was the inscription 'Nooj the Undying, Defender of the Powerless'. All around the image, people were kneeling, prostrating themselves, beating their breasts, wailing. He couldn't make out just what they were begging for but it sounded as if most of them were whining for success in some endeavor or another. It didn't seem to matter that they were praying to a War God; the act alone seemed enough to satisfy their need for contact with the spiritual. He watched curiously as a woman nearing the statue drew a knife from her belt and, with a smooth movement, slit her own throat. Immediately, a certain number of the other worshippers yelped in approval and fell to lauding her act as two of a uniformed crew hastened to collect the body and carry it away and another pair bent to wipe the blood from the floor.

Nooj turned to a nearby priest who had not moved during the episode. "What was that all about? Why did she do that?"

"Oh, that was just one of the Deathseekers; we get two or three every day who come to die at the feet of their patron." The priest replied casually.

"But, that's not what it's about. Deathseekers can't kill themselves – they have to die in a battle of some sort, preferably a worthy one." Nooj almost spluttered.

The priest turned and looked carefully at him before grinning. "You don't look old enough to still believe that. That's the old way – out of fashion for almost twenty years. Times have changed and so have the Deathseekers."

"What becomes of the bodies?"

"We give them back to the families if they want them and come get them. After we've held them for three days, we burn the left-overs in the main furnace – helps heat this place. Good economics."

"And you, do you believe in all this? Do you worship this...?" He waved his good hand at the statue and its adorers.

"As much as anything. He did kill the thing in the Pit and he did disappear after he did it. Who's to say that he didn't ascend and become a god? It doesn't cost anything to say a prayer or two to him and burn a little incense."

"Would you kill yourself like that woman did?"

"No. I'm not a member of that cult. I'm just a simple priest of Yevon/Nooj."

Nooj persevered, "But the statue looks nothing like him and the stories of the Pit are lies. He used a cane and couldn't see without spectacles. He was as crippled as I am and never thought of being a god."

"Now, you're talking sedition and blasphemy. We know what he was and we know what he did. Why are you trying to tamper with the faith of the faithful?"

Nooj did not attempt to answer the man's suspicions but instead turned away and moved as quickly as he could down the wide aisle. When he came at last into the freshness of the outside, he breathed deeply and looked at the individuals strolling around the broad plaza. To his bitter amusement, he saw another of the statues to his transmogrified self – a near duplicate of the one in the heart of the temple. He turned to a passer-by to attempt reason as a counter-irritant and suddenly realized that the man had no ears. He spun around to survey the others, squinting to make out their features and saw that none of them had ears. As he watched, disbelieving, the faces of the men and women walking in the area seemed to melt and metamorphose; ears disappeared into the sides of the head, mouths stretched and began bleating demands and begging favors, the eyes narrowed and looked only upward, noses shrank and blended into the flatness of the facial planes. A shadow fell across his vision and he glanced up to see the monstrous statue of himself step down from the pedestal and, the enormous face still directed toward the sky and the sword still uplifted, begin crushing the worshippers beneath its bare feet. He tried to run but his gait became ever more clumsy and he felt himself stumble, falling into the canal that bordered the open space. He fell through the crackling crystal surface and beneath the water into a shadowy blue-tinged airless world.

In Guadosalam, a thin woman swathed in black sat in a blue shadowed room gazing with unseeing eyes at the hands loosely clasped in her lap. She seemed to have been sitting in this room, in this chair, in this position for a long time, perhaps for as long as anyone could remember. A casual observer would think her to be a life sized doll placed in that pose to demonstrate some concept of aesthetic sorrow or to show the proper use of the chair and the room for she did not move or even seem to breathe.

Nooj remained as still as she. He was leaning against the wall, facing her and watching with the care of an squire at the altar on the night before his investiture. He, too, was as motionless as a mannequin and to an observant eye the pair of them would have formed a tableau that might well have been titled "Loss and His Consort, Sorrow."

Finally, when he knew who he was and who she had to be, he spoke, "LeBlanc, it is I."

The woman did not stir, only lifting her eyelids and fixing her blank stare on his face.

He moved to her side and, kneeling awkwardly, took her hand in his and kissed the palm with the greatest tenderness. "LeBlanc, it is I – Nooj. I am here, back with you." He wound his fingers in the short loose curls he had so often caressed and turned her face toward him. "Look at me, LeBlanc. I am Nooj."

Her pale lips parted and she visibly inhaled. A voiceless whisper escaped her and she tried again. "Nooj. Is this a dream?"

"Yes, but it's real too. You can touch me and we can embrace. It is our dream and we can use it as we wish."

Like a wax figure in a sun-struck diorama, she seemed to melt in the chair, collapsing all at once into a boneless heap. He tried to gather her up but was unable to collect her in his clumsy grasp. "LeBlanc! It's me. Don't do this."

She pushed herself away from the chair and and threw herself on her knees before him, clinging to him as though she would never let him go again. For a timeless while, they knelt there together, closely entwined and silent.

At last, she rose to her feet and extending her hand, helped him to stand beside her. "How can this happen? You died in the Pit. I was told that you were dead, this time with no hope of resurrection. So I went to your island to bear our sons among your people and left them there. How can you be here?"

"This is no resurrection; it's a dream and it can last as long as a dream will last. We can make that forever or only a moment. Our choice. Forget everything except me and I'll remember only you. That way the dream will last; those are the rules."

She nodded gravely. "I had not known the rules but the ones you say seem right to me. Let it last." She wound her arms around his neck and heard the resounding clang of the falling cane as he pulled her to him.

The garden of LeBlanc's house in Guadosalam was blooming in full, all the bushes and trees and hedges and beds blooming in season and out. The lovers walked along the paths among the perfume of the blossoms crushed beneath their feet. They had spoken little, lest they disturb the fabric of the dream.

She leaned against his shoulder, her silver gown glowing in the starlight, "Did you know you are now a god and that I am a goddess?"

"I had heard that and I've seen the statues of me. Somehow, I never realized I was so abundantly muscled or had features of such divine symmetry. Where are your statues? What do you think they will make of you?"

She giggled, "I can't imagine. I expect they'll turn me into some kind of universal mother, probably with a big belly and my breasts become fountains. That's the role which is my chief claim to their affections. No, they won't do statues until I die. I think they are waiting for me to go to Bevelle and sink a dagger in my heart at your shrine in the main temple. Shall I do that?"

He caught her playfully by the neck and shook her gently, "I, your deity, absolutely forbid you to do such a silly thing. You are to live as long as possible and tell the truth about the both of us. This cult thing is getting out of hand."

"You're right. They've made you something you never were and have forgotten the traits that make you what you actually are. In turning you into a deity, they've left out the human courage and dignity that I really worshipped."

"Let there be no talk of worship between us. We're both human and that's enough. Can you help me fight back against this obscenity?"

"I'll try. Now let's not talk about any of that. I want to just feel you near me and look at you. Remember the rules."

"Yes, always the rules." He led her down the glowing trail to the small clearing behind the house of the Elder. "Rest here; the moss is very soft and comfortable and the trees make excellent backrests."

She sat down and beckoned to the two youngsters who wandered in from the surrounding foliage. "Ewain and Arden, come sit with your father and me."

"Yes, mother", the two little boys spoke as one. "It's good to see you again and be together. Have you seen the statue in the center of the village? It kind of looks like our father."

Nooj threw his head back and laughed. "Does it have a cane and spectacles, then?"

"Yessir."

"In that case, let it be. Just don't start taking it seriously."

"Oh, we never would. You're our father, not a god. Come sit by our mother and let's be family together."

Nooj lowered himself to the moss and turned to LeBlanc with a smile. "I think this has turned into your dream." He gestured at the twin infant boys, gurgling and waving their pudgy fists in the moonlight near where they sat.

LeBlanc laid her palm against the side of his face, "I do believe you're right. Do the same rules still hold?"

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Nooj turned restlessly in his sleep, as though troubled by unseen phantasms. LeBlanc gently reached over, stroking his face, and waited for his eyes to open.

"Were you dreaming bad things again, my love?"

He caught her hand and brushed it with his lips, "I don't know. I don't remember. Was I being a nuisance?"

"No, you just seemed bothered and I thought you might want to start over."

"Excellent thought," he murmured as he drew her close and felt her warm breath against his neck as he slipped back into sleep.