Chapter 2: The Girl Least Likely To

Amelia loved her daughter with the prideful and jealous love a mother has for a daughter. She had resolved to love her daughter from the moment the baby emerged from her ruined womb---something shared between Amelia and the father. A thing made from the tenuous bonds of a fragile relationship (Just what that relationship was had never been officially decided, nor announced to the kingdom. As it was, her unofficial title, dreamt up by some unknown subject and whispered by all, was "Mrs. Gray"---the "Mr." in question came and went as he pleased, whether or not this pleased Amelia did not matter; she knew this was the only way she could keep him, if he could be kept at all, and Amelia convinced herself that this was all a testament of her love for him).

She found it odd that whenever she thought of her feelings for her daughter or the father, she thought in terms of glass.

More often than not, she suspected Zelgadis's irregular presence had to do with her daughter. Amelia knew this would happen. She knew since the moment the midwife put the child in his arms and she saw a look of unreserved love in his eyes she had never seen before.

She wasn't supposed to be born. Not because Amelia didn't want her---if the baby was anything it was a wanted child---but because no one thought it was possible. Or prudent. But she carried the pregnancy to term amidst, or perhaps in spite of, the protests of those to whom Amelia's most personal of roles was of great concern, which was just about everyone who had no business concerning themselves with her private life.

Perhaps she felt that they all should be somewhat placated by the fact that they no longer had to worry about her absences from the palace since she could no longer travel with Zelgadis; it had become impossible when before it had only been nearly impossible. This was okay, really, because Zelgadis was unable to do anything but hover around during her seclusion, vacillating between a tender fascination and frustrated impotence since there wasn't really all that much he could do. She would rather have gone about her palace duties as usual, but her active nature was stymied by the exceptional weight of her inconceivable conception and the adamant insistence of Zelgadis (echoed by everyone else around her) that she should resign herself to nine dull months of convalescence, during which she came to feel that not only did she get an ugly, fat ass, but that she was, in fact, the hugest, ugliest fat-ass in the entire world, even though this was just the hormones that made her feel this way, and despite the fact that Zelgadis was the type of man who thought that the woman he, however unintentionally, impregnated was beautiful and that pregnancy made her breasts even more magnificent (but he was also the sort of man that kept these, as well as most of his other feelings, to himself).

Amelia would have found her situation and his behavior intolerable had it not been for those times when Zelgadis would press his ear against her belly in his efforts to make out the indecipherable heartbeat of the stranger growing inside. To Zelgadis (grandchild of incest, who hated himself out of a belief that his afflicted body was nothing less than proof of his greatest sin, the sin of coming into being and remaining alive) this thing to be born (marked by his three-fold sin: avarice, pride. . .lust) could be his redemption. Its being was a sheet on which he could lay out all of his thoughts and unspoken intensions.

But when Amelia listened, she heard only a small voice from deep within her person. "Mama be strong," said the voice, "Mama be strong for me, be strong for papa. I am becoming."

And Amelia's flesh quaked and screamed each time the new life forming inside of her exerted its nascent will. Amelia, experiencing a weird lucidity as her thoughts turned themselves inward while her body, rather than her mind, began making more and more of her decisions for her in the outside world, knew that this creature becoming (nothing short of a miracle) would do so because of its strong will to be: as strong, if not stronger than the will that wished it into being. Knew that with such willfulness comes a great pain and the responsibility to bear it, for both mother and child, for the world would not be so generous as to allow such a power of will to exist in it un-earned; its place in the world must be justified by sacrifice, lest the world itself become unbalanced by the presence of such a being. Knew this would be nothing compared to what her body would feel when it finally became---nothing compared to the pain of a birth that left her unable to bear any more children (this would not keep her from trying---even though Zelgadis could not look even look her in the face for months, he was so ashamed). And in a little over a year after the birth of her daughter, Amelia knew what had been sacrificed.

It was surprisingly anticlimactic; but why be melodramatic if she knew what would happen and was prepared for the inevitability of it all (even if, throughout all of the time leading to it, she hoped to avoid the ugliness of the thing---that perhaps, just this once, the stupid order of the world would overlook her too-perfect-to-be-permanent-happiness and let her be)? She found a small satisfaction in imagining how the unreadable expression on her face must have looked as she went over the arrangements with Zelgadis---perhaps she had indulged her penchant for theater. Maybe.

Just a little bit.

She did not blame the child.

By the accounts of all the advisors, high-ranking clerics, and various other minions in her service, the child itself was one favored by the gods. Of course they would say so, although she couldn't shake a vague feeling of unease whenever she heard this, knowing and believing, as she did, that such favored people often paid the high price of suffering for those gifts. She only occasionally heard the term "bastard" in association with her child, and never "miscegenation", but those that may have thought such thoughts wouldn't dare utter them---at least not within her earshot. Her father, quickly approaching his dotage, was thrilled to be a grandfather. But Amelia knew this would be so. Her grandfather---king of Seyruun in title only, his infirm, aged decrepitude so advanced at this point---couldn't see what all the fuss was about, but, then again, he couldn't see very much of anything. When asked for his blessing, he couldn't tell Amelia from his long-dead daughter, which was just as well. Had his eyes been less rheumy, his faculties less occluded, he probably would have made the most fuss. This, too, was to be expected. And it didn't really bother Amelia except for the nagging thought that she might one day descend into her own version of congenital madness, so she saw the dying king only because it was customary and probably the Right Thing To Do.

When her daughter was older, she explained everything, but had no vocabulary with which to do so unless it came couched in the romantic fairy-language of a child's bedtime story. "Once upon a time, there was a princess," she'd begin. She'd tell her daughter that the princess, who was good and abhorred injustice, was in love with a man cursed to hide his face from the world. To live among people, he hid his face behind a mask of heavy stone. But because of the mask, the people were still afraid of him, even though he was a shining knight who valiantly fought for the cause of Justice (Amelia couldn't help but to add that last bit in). But the princess wasn't afraid. One night, while her lover slept, she removed the mask to see his true face, and it wasn't the face of a monster. The princess realized that it was his heart, not his face, locked inside of a stone prison. It was then that the princess vowed to break the curse, and the man would finally know his true face.

So each night, while he slept, she'd light a candle and trace the outline of his shadow on the wall. The princess knew a bit of magic herself, you see, and she knew that when she finished the spell, he would see what she herself already knew. Knowing the truth, the curse would be lifted, the walls around his heart would crumble, and he would forever be free of the mask.

It was on the last night when the princess was about to finish the spell and break the curse that she accidentally spilled the tallow. The man, awakened by the hot wax, saw what the princess had done and became angry. "You have ruined us both. Because of this, you will never be able to see me again." And then he left. But the man took pity on the princess, the stone around his heart half gone from the incomplete spell. He left the freed half of his heart with her, and that piece of him grew into a child. And now, the unfinished drawing of a shadow roams the halls of the princess's castle, forever looking for the missing half of its heart. . . .

Lina thought the story was completely inappropriate for children. She told Amelia that her daughter would be irrevocably warped when she grew up. But Amelia ignored her longtime friend's advice, because she had no children of her own. Lina swore up and down she didn't like children (or rather, other people's children: they were obnoxiously codependent, entitled, anarchic, and couldn't be reasoned with---Lina blamed the parents). She'd vowed to do her part to curb the rising pandemic of uncontrolled population growth by not procreating at all, considering this decision to be the highest order of political activism. This did not stop her from extolling her opinions on the subject of child-rearing as often as she could, insofar as her thoughts on the matter were possibly the most correct (as would be obvious to any reasonably intelligent person). Lina was worried about her friend, who told her that these things happen, probably couldn't be helped, she had no regrets, and, yes, please finish off the chicken, her figure wasn't quite what it used to be after having Zelina---Lina would understand when she had her own children (Lina thought it wasn't bloody likely), etc. etc. So Lina didn't bring it up anymore to either of her friends, as this was the one subject of both Zelgadis and Amelia's lives that was completely impervious to the barrage of Lina's well-intentioned lecturing and friendly abuses.

As a child, the story fascinated Zelina, whether or not she understood that it was about her or not. She often searched the halls of the palace, looking for the shadow with the broken heart. Sometimes she and her mother would make a game of it, pointing to hazy outlines and darkened forms by candlelight, discovering them to be no more than the ordinary kabuki of coats and clutter that haunted suspected wardrobes and unused rooms. There was no wraith-like form wandering along the tapestries and mosaics of the palace halls. Instead, Zelina found only the pale photograms of removed mirrors, spectral and stark against the walls. Amelia told her that her father hated mirrors, and this seemed to be the only evidence that he'd ever existed in a context outside of Zelina's egocentric universe.

Zelina, however, did not fear mirrors. She'd stare at her reflection for hours, consumed in self-absorption. It wasn't vanity. She'd touch her face, taking inventory of each feature: these are my eyes, my ears, this is my nose, these are my cheek bones, this is my mouth---this is what my smile looks like. . . .owning each as she named them. Not entirely hers alone: they also belonged to her father, who, because they shared so much, was perfect in her eyes. She wasn't old enough to recognize anything of Amelia in her face. Perhaps she was too smitten with what she saw of her father looking back. At night, she'd sometimes see her mother sit in front of the large glass oval that hung over her dressing table. Watched as Amelia stared absently into it, applying cold cream, wondering how it was she got to be so old. Of all the beautifully lacquered bottles and inlaid cases of mysterious powders, perfumes, soaps, lotions, and jewelry---Zelina played with them when no one was looking, careful to return each item to its prettily appointed spot on the table---she set aside a special hatred for cold cream.

Amelia's relationship with Zelgadis, however delicate, was common. The means she used to keep the relationship intact was also common (as any woman who'd ever had a baby to unsuccessfully save a relationship could've told her)---though, in Amelia's mind, she insisted that it was not (and would've said as much to those women, if it hadn't been none of their business). She told herself that she wanted his children and told this to herself so often that she believed it, whether or not she really did or just made up her mind to. If she harbored any resentment towards Zelina for the bond she alone shared with her father, Amelia resolved never to let it degenerate into some horrible thing between them. She never knew her own mother. She committed herself to maintaining a relationship that she could not as a child, and the results of those efforts were mixed. Amelia and her daughter had little in common. Zelina was, in almost every way Amelia could see, her father's daughter.

Amelia, like many mothers of a certain socio-economic pedigree, wanted her child to have everything---or as Lina put it, fill Zelina's life with as much well-intentioned but meaningless structure as could be crammed into a seven-day week. She modeled Zelina's education after her own which, if nothing else, served only to prove how different they were from each other. Whereas Amelia had been a dreamy child, Zelina had a more analytical mind. As she got older, underscoring the predictable and petty adolescent rebellions was an almost indiscernible cattiness---in fact it was more like snobbery. Zelina found her mother's interest in wrestling pedestrian and inelegant (although she would grudgingly admit that boxing was a thinking man's sport) and could not, for the life of her, understand how her mother couldn't understand the most basic of mathematical functions or let her take up fencing as a hobby. Nor could she figure out what Lina, of all people, found so exasperating about her magical "experiments" (this was not helped by Gourry, who would remind Lina that she was about the same age when she experimented with all that freaky end-of-the-world-magic and Lina would not-so-good-naturedly punch his arm and tell him it wasn't the same thing, and so on). And though she didn't realize it, Zelina was very different from her father in that she wasn't at all ashamed of her body, covering herself only because she found it pointless and stupid to argue with the many palace officials and dignitaries who would never admit to being put off by her (to her face, anyhow), but didn't quite no how to act in her presence.

Amelia attributed her daughter's dourness to the fact that Zelina physically aged at three-quarters the rate of her actual age, and this was not the usual case of a child possessed of an old soul---it had something to do with the physical makeup of her chimera body, but Zelgadis couldn't really explain this either, since their bodies were significantly different and his body had been changed into its current form well after puberty. Amelia would sigh and say that it wouldn't be a problem for much longer since the women in her family had a tendency to develop early, which Zelgadis found embarrassing, Lina irritating, and Zelina inconsequential---since she had worked out the numbers and written them down several times for her mother (in the bored, slightly exasperated way exceptional children do just to prove to adults how precocious they are), who always managed to misplace each slip of paper neatly covered with precise columns of numbers and arithmetical notations.

Zelina went along with her mother's designs, if only to prove that she could be better. If her mother had been a somewhat clumsy child, Zelina did her best to affect a natural gracefulness. If Amelia professed a black and white distinction between right and wrong, she had a relativistic philosophy of the world. She didn't hate Amelia. She merely thought of her mother as competition for the affections of an absent man. Amelia couldn't blame her: she was also a child raised on a father's love. And neither she, nor Amelia (who grew up without knowing her own mother and outside the influence of her sister, largely expecting her relationship with her daughter to be more like the one that exists between sisters) knew it, but Zelina had not yet reached the age when mothers and daughters stopped seeing each other as such, but as women instead. If she had been of that age, they would have realized that they were allies and not adversaries. But every time Zelina would push just a little too hard and cross one to many boundaries, she would stop dead at even the implied threat of 'I'll tell your father. . .". This was something Zelina would never test: even though she knew he'd never intend it to be interpreted as such, she could never bear the betrayal of her father taking Amelia's side of anything.

After a time, Amelia was at a loss for a way to respond to her child. After all, Zelina wasn't a bad child. There was only a perceived lack of common ground that kept them from being able to relate to one another. Amelia was determined not to be unhappy about it. So she did what she thought best: give Zelina space and allow her to come of age on her own terms. Wasn't that what she did at her daughter's age? Besides, it was politically useful to have diplomatic ties with other kingdoms under the ruse of arranging for places where Seyruun's heir could be fostered at brief intervals.

And thus, Amelia went about the palace as she normally did, overseeing joint parliamentary ethics committee hearings, and co-sponsoring social reform bills, and organizing charity events. Then one day she had an unexpected, but not unwelcome, visitor.

Amelia liked the boy. When Valgaav arrived, a hand-drawn map and a letter of introduction crumpled in his hand, flanked by the guardsmen who found him loitering outside the city gate (a little worse for wear: he seemed confused and a bit dim---it had taken him hours to travel what was slightly more than a brisk, fifteen minute walk, but she couldn't really blame him), she was puzzled, but curious. She read Fillia's letter, which helped explain things, and didn't feel at all miffed that he had been sent to her without warning or even so much as a casual gesture of asking whether or not it would be an inconvenience to send him there. Amelia was used to this sort of treatment from her friends, and she supposed it would be unjust to put one's own feelings before the needs of others (also, as Lina often pointed out, Amelia should know from all her training, that a Prince often finds it expedient to act first, since it is far easier to beg pardon than to ask permission---she politely refrained from reminding Lina that neither she, nor Fillia was a head of State, as opposed to Amelia, who was).

Actually, Amelia was glad Valgaav appeared when he did. She liked taking care of people---she had been groomed for that role over the course of her entire life. She gave him some work in the Library: nothing too demanding, just enough to satisfy Fillia's request that he make himself useful so long as Amelia allowed him to stay in the city in the hopes that seeing a city so different than the small town in which he was raised might pique his interest in what the rest of the world might be like and embark on some grand adventure on his own. Amelia understood what her friend was trying to do, but didn't think it would work. She could tell by the way he acquiesced to her motherly fussing over him (as opposed to Zelina, who, at this point, wouldn't tolerate any sort of maternal intervention, no matter how innocuous) that he wasn't the sort of person who went about looking for trouble. He kept to himself, attended to his work in the Library, and everything fell into routine, as if he'd been a palace fixture for his entire life.

In fact, she observed, trouble often found him rather than the other way around. She doled out more than a few sharp words to the servant girls after he'd been there for about a week. She kept a close eye on him---for his sake, not the girls: only the gods knew how many sordid affairs and aristocratic intrigues had occurred for generations within the palace halls, but she doubted he was prepared to deal with the subtle politics and worldly appetites of bored courtiers and a jaded workforce. Amelia found herself surprisingly glad that her own child showed very little interest in boys (her sexual curiosity was alarmingly frank and of an entirely scientific nature---something any future suitor would no doubt find emasculating and not at all sexy).

Valgaav, who liked Seyruun well enough, even if it seemed to be a bit large, its bustling, cosmopolitan undercurrents too vigorous, and all its shiny white columns and facades more than a bit too shiny and white, didn't really know why he was there. Women, he knew from experience, always seemed to have plans for the unsuspecting men they come across. But for the life of him, he couldn't figure out Amelia (who he liked very much---she was okay as far as princesses go, or so he guessed, having never met any---although he suspected she was a king short of playing with a full deck). When he learned that Amelia had a daughter he thought: "Ah-ha!" But this revelation shed no more light on Amelia's designs for him, and when he asked her about it, a strange expression passed over her features---a mixture of pride, concern, and genuine surprise that she, herself, hadn't brought it up---that Valgaav could only conclude had very little to do with him.

"Zelina? Oh no, I haven't introduced you because she isn't here. It would be nice if the two of you could meet, however, I couldn't say when. She spends a good deal of time out and about---always doing her own thing. To be a teen-ager again. . ." Amelia smiled more to herself than for him.

"What's she like?"

"She is very much her father's daughter," and that was all she said on the subject.

Valgaav didn't really think much more on the matter in spite of his curiosity, having already determined that whatever it was had little to do with him. In fact, most of what went on in the kingdom of Seyruun had very little to do with him. Usually, he preferred it this way, but his tentative steps of his first venture away from home had awakened the first pangs of longing for something more than what he already knew, although he couldn't say just what it was he felt so urgently about. A few weeks passed, and he felt compelled to wander about the palace complex. He did this mostly to stay out of the way---this particular day, of all the days he had spent there, seemed electric with an expectation that affected even him. Everyone around him seemed agitated. He did not know what it what all about and purposely did not seek to find out. He did hear grumblings about some diplomatic tension involving a distant land with a strange name he didn't even attempt to pronounce. He felt a little annoyed that Fillia would send him to a kingdom at a time when they could, for all he knew, be poised to go to war (he knew little of battle in his current life, but knew enough to know that he a) wanted no part of it, and b) was of an age generals thought perfect to draft into their ranks---and living on Amelia's good graces as he did, he was not entirely convinced she would prevent his conscription as both she and perhaps even Fillia, as unlikely as it would seem, might find it good for his moral fiber to do some time in the military).

Arms outstretched, he looked up at the sky ready to entreat the gods in their infinite wisdom to prevent his going to war, when he saw the strangest thing. On the highest spire of the tallest tower he thought he saw. . .a person?

He looked around the courtyard to see if there was anyone else around who could confirm what he'd seen was real or a hallucination, but there was no one, except the strange figure perched at the un-godly height. Since there was no one, he was clear to do what he had no other recourse but to do if he was ever going to figure this strange thing out. He sighed, closed his eyes, and with a thought disappeared from where he stood only to materialize again in mid-air, hovering slightly above the person who was, in fact, an actual person standing on the highest spire of the tallest tower, and not a hallucination. He had little time to decide whether or not this person being real made him feel better or worse, because that person was visibly put off by his sudden appearance and simultaneously trying to regain his or her balance while incanting what sounded like a really nasty spell to throw at him.

He de-materialized, dodging the magical blast and reappearing just in time to see that he had only succeeded in annoying his strange attacker, who was preparing something even nastier to throw at him.

"Wait! I didn't mean to frighten you---I mean, I'm a guest of the Princess---I mean, I just wanted to see if you were real. . ." he stammered, lamely.

"Of course I'm real," his experience told him the voice was female. He waited, but she did not say anything else, nor did whoever it was relax her defensive stance.

"Um. . .perhaps we should continue somewhere more. . .stable?" he glanced over his shoulder and motioned toward a nearby rooftop. She said nothing, but also did nothing. So he took this as a cue and repeated his disappearing trick, reappearing at the spot he'd indicated just before. She regarded him awhile before following, descending with a complicated, technical leap that ended in a well-practiced crouch in front of him. More than a little impressed, he clapped, which seemed to please the stranger as she righted herself and assumed a posture of one accustomed to authority. What little he could see of her face---she wore a hooded mask, even in the stifling summer humidity---vacillated between appearing to be an odd shade of grey and an even odder shade of blue. However, it was very hot, and they were awfully high up, and she was a sorceress of some sort---Valgaav thought it best not to jump to conclusions over what could turn out to be a trick of the afternoon light, some mage spawned illusion, his questionable grasp of perceptible reality, or any combination of the three. . .

"An interesting trick of yours---it reeks of the astral plane, but I haven't come across it in shamanism. Who are you and what sort of magic is this?" He didn't much care for her tone.

"Uh, my name is Valgaav and I'm not a magician. Not really. . ."

"The trick. How did you do it, then?"

"It's just something I've always been able to do."

"Well Valgaav, if you're not really a magician, what do you do? Besides mysteriously teleporting yourself, that is?"

"I make pottery."

"Uh huh," she then produces a small leather-bound notebook and something to write with from somewhere on her person and scribbled what sounded like three terse sentences. Valgaav imagined, not at all incorrectly that she wrote "Valgaav. Not really a magician. Makes pottery." Before returning the book

to whatever mysterious place from which she had gotten it.

"So why were you. . ."

"I'll ask the questions---you answer," she pointed an accusing finger at him, "Who sent you?"

"Nobody sent me. I just wanted to see if you were real. I guess you could've been a statue or something. . ." this only seemed to annoy the stranger even more, "I mean, you couldn't have been because of where you were, I guess. . ."

"I suppose it can't be helped, I mean, when one's experience is of the ceramic sort. Even so, I seem to have that effect on people." There was an edge to her last statement, a strange prideful ness. He thought he heard someone, a child perhaps, giggling."

"What was. . ."

"It was nothing. Understand? You've seen no one," and with that, she leapt off the roof and disappeared into the architecture, leaving Valgaav even more confused than when he first saw her.

When he rematerialized back to the courtyard, he was surprised to find Amelia, who was not so much surprised by his "trick" as she was in finding him there. She was flanked by Lina Inverse and a young girl wearing what appeared to be some elaborate mage robes---although of a nicer quality than he'd seen on any magic user. This, in concert with the expensive looking circlet the girl wore led Valgaav to the conclusion that the girl could be no one else but Amelia's daughter. But when he said as much, Amelia's face turned magenta as it screwed itself into the expression one gets when one is trying very hard not to laugh, as opposed to the girl who demurred, and Lina who broke down in a violent hysterical fit.

"HAHAHA-HA. . .ahhh. . . no," Lina wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. "This is Tatiana, youngest princess of Xoanna---well, second youngest, if you count her twin sister, Marianna, who's now nursing some very painful second-degree astral-burns with their older brother, Zoroaster, in the palace infirmary." The girl smiled shyly. "Martina would name each of her thirteen children after herself, or that ridiculous Zomelgustar. . ." This explanation did nothing to abate Valgaav's increasing confusion, or the terrible nausea beginning to curdle in the pit of his stomach. . .

"Xoanna and Seyruun. . .they aren't at. . .I mean, Tatiana. . .she isn't some sort of political hostage, is she? Please don't make me join the army. . ."

Lina was overcome by another giggling fit while pointing at him. "You? The army? What good would you be for the army? Throw some porcelain pots?"

"What?"

"It's okay, dear," Amelia patted his arm gently, "I'm sure they're perfectly lovely pots. Everyone needs a hobby. I'm quite fond of professional wrestling, myself."

"Ye gods! I almost peed myself. Xoanna and Seyruun aren't at war. Marianna and Zoroaster like to pretend they're some sort of dynamic sword and sorcery duo, and Miss Too Cool for School, Zelina, thinks it's funnier to remind them that they're not. Luckily, they have excellent health insurance---no kidding, full coverage and almost no deductible. High monthly premiums, though. . ."

"Ah. I see. . .Wait---what?"

"And that one there---"

"I came to see the Prince," finished Tatiana, who blushed and then did her best to shrink out of everyone's attention.

"Who, Philionel---I thought he---what?" Amelia turned purple and had to cover her mouth with both hands. Lina's amusement was beginning to segue into mild irritation.

"Pay attention, boy! This isn't all that difficult. See, Seyruun's probably going to war with Quadule Quipezquesh. . ."

"Kwah-dooo what?"

"Quadule Quipezquesh---what's wrong with you? Never mind. Anyway, so Zelina was supposed to go to Xoanna this summer, but she decided to go to that stinky outland sand-trap instead to study advanced mathematic theorems, non-Euclidian geometry or some such idiocy. Now, it seems, she decided to kidnap Crown Prince Hassan al-Fadir Elahi Amir Rache VI, first son of King Four's favorite and third-youngest concubine, as there seems to be some blood feud between the boy and his half-brother Rashid Jesmond-whatever, let's just call him JR for short---and before you ask, this is not who Tatiana came to see, and no, I will not repeat any of those names just because you seem to have a listening problem. In any case, none of this really concerns you. . ."

"Wh-what?"

"Say "what" again. Say 'what' one more time. . .forget it. I am completely exhausted."

"What she means to say, young man," interrupted Amelia, "is that things are a bit tense right now. It would probably be best if you didn't fly around the palace while everyone's looking for my daughter."

"I wasn't flying around, I just. . .I saw someone up there. . ." he looked up.

"Oh my. . ."

Lina slapped her forehead. "Why didn't you say so earlier?"

"What?"

Everyone looked upward, except Amelia who took the time to survey the strangeness of the whole scene before following suit. Above them, perched on the highest spire of the tallest tower was the same figure that had so confounded Valgaav earlier. Amelia shaded her eyes with her hand and wondered just how long she had been up there watching them.

"Well, that's one thing we have in common," she mused aloud, and though she stopped herself from laughing, if anyone had been paying attention, they would've caught the briefest hint of a smile.

Next chapter: The Collector

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Notes:

So I was reading over the preamble from the 1st chapter, and realize how ridiculously benighted and noble I want to seem, which is kind of silly considering that I spend an equal amount of time acknowledging and making fun of my sincere love of an endeavor one could consider "dorky" or "vain". I try to have a good sense of humor about it. To worry about appearing vain is a true sign of vanity. This is probably why I write about narcissists.

Oh yes, about the incest line (paragraph six, line three). I did some research and found out that the whole Rezo as both Zelgadis's grandfather and great-grandfather thing was really just a translation error---but I learned this after I wrote that particular part of chapter two, and the only way the mis-translation would work is as described in the line I wrote. I didn't take it out because it works and it makes the Red Priest that much more evil and it is in keeping with my decision to stick to the material in the U.S.-released TV series.

It took me a longer time than I thought to post this and the next chapter. I actually write really fast (for me, writing merely involves smoking a hideous amount of cigarettes, drawing and scribbling illegibly on multiple half-used legal pads, work-shopping the disjointed prose with bored coworkers on company time, and remembering to refill my adderall prescription). The majority of the time spent between posts is consumed by videogames, my 8-year undergraduate college plan, ill-advised relationships with all the f***ing-wrong-people, crippling self-doubt, mild substance abuse, teaching children how to write and draw their own comic books, cultivating an affable aura of misanthropy to maintain a superficial hipster credibility, forgetting to refill my adderall prescription, and a wasting a miserable amount of energy trying to get everyone I meet to like me (everyone wants to be "liked"). Typical writer stuff they never teach you in first-year creative writing. The important stuff.

To read the next part of these notes, you must either be 18 or older, or mature enough to be cool and let it slide because I don't want to get kicked off this site over mere differences of opinions concerning the appropriateness of certain references. It really isn't all that bad---although, some might say I have a very liberal definition of what's considered "that bad". I'll probably edit it out in about a week. Besides, getting kicked off the website would mean you'll never get to know what happens next.

So I got this one review for my last story about two years ago, from anonymous, who thought to tell me that chimera sex is horribly painful/probably impossible, and I have been waiting all this time to tell that person: No. It isn't. I'm not going to launch into some Kevin Smith-esque monologue deconstructing the logistical paradoxes inherent to this sort of material. Instead, I would like to cite the many specimens and varieties of stone and precious metal linga figures from India, pre-columbian Peruvian ceramics, or the jade %$#-rings of central and southeast Asia dating from ancient times to present. I think the Smithsonian has some in its permanent collections. Google it! I also think this person should visit their local adult novelty store (it's like you got to have a post-office and a sex shop to be considered a municipal entity in this country) and check out its stupefying selection of Pyrex and metal gizmos and what-have-yous (the glass pieces can be micro-waved or frozen, and it's absolutely brilliant! . .or so I hear. . .) all with bells, bumps, electrical switches, laser-light shows, whistles, French-ticklers and other such additions, subtractions, multiplications, and divisions, in any color, size, shape and texture imaginable. All water-tight, allergen-free, ribbed for his and her pleasure, and dishwasher safe! Priced to be affordable at any income level. Seriously!

I must apologize to my more sensitive readers. I am not trying to offend you, and I'm pretty sure you have no idea what I am talking about (See second to newest entry of the reviews for my previous story, "Untitled"). See, I was also told by the same anonymous reviewer that I need to re-watch my Slayers! tapes, because I failed to insert any of the anachronistic charm of the series into my stories. I'm not mad about the review, nor am I mad at the reviewer. I'm just a bit more informed about some things, having done some. . .uh. . .research (while conducting your own research, I recommend all interested parties wear sterile gloves and a lab coat, rectal thermometer neatly tucked into the front breast-pocket, with two sexy Asian nurses on hand to take notes---might as well make it all official) and I thought I'd drop some knowledge on the subject in case it comes up again.

The moral of the story is, don't write anonymous reviews---at least, not to me. Stand behind your opinions---I'm obviously not afraid of looking like an asshole, so you shouldn't either. If we can do this, if we could put aside our insecurities and come together, then I don't have to write long and possibly offensive counter-arguments in my chapter notes for all to see---I'll just send them directly! Man, I've waited two and a half years to publish all this. And yes, I feel pretty-effin-amazing having written it. To all Amelia/Zelgadis-shippers: you're welcome.

For serious, if you all aren't laughing right now, I am a failure as a writer.

Oh, and to the same anonymous reviewer: it's O.C.D, not O.C.C, and O.C.D. is where you stamp your feet twelve times before you enter a room, or use Kleenex boxes as slippers, etc.---it's a very extreme disorder with very extreme symptoms and very different from what I wrote about. But yeah, I thought about it, and you're right. I did write Zelgadis a bit too gracious.

Sincerely,

The Management

(P.S.): "VICTORY!"