Lying unmoving on the rock for ages, Aurora has found that the only word to describe the last few months is agony.

There are many kinds of agony. One is the physical agony. The agony she feels when she lies on her belly, unable to move, as her dislocated wing protrudes bizarrely from her, like the twisted antenna of Temp the crawler; the agony she felt as the huge twister snagged her wing as she darted between the trees of the jungle, exhausted and disoriented, trying desperately to give a just as wounded Luxa an opening. But there are other kinds of agony too. Another is the agony of waiting. The agony she feels as she waits endlessly for help which may never come; the agony she feels as the hope slips from Luxa's voice and her face turns stony. And there is the agony of not knowing, too. The agony she feels as the weeks turns to months and her wing only grows worse; the agony she felt when she learned of what the Overlander did.

No one agony is necessarily the worst, for all agony is agony. But there is one that is particularly horrible. And this is the agony that follows a loss of hope, for it encompasses and worsens all other agonies.

Perhaps none will come. Perhaps none will rescue them. Perhaps the Overlander truly is in league with the gnawers. Perhaps he truly has betrayed them. Perhaps this is where it ends for them. Perhaps all this is true. Luxa certainly is close to believing all this. She screams and rages in burning anger at times, cursing all who have abandoned her and all who have betrayed her. At other times, she grows quiet and turns the anger unto herself. She curses her own foolishness. Her temerity. She ought never to have trusted this or that, she ought never to have done this or that. She ought never to have left her city, but how could that have come to be when she herself had left her city for her city?

Hopelessness is a terrible kind of agony. And Aurora has plenty of time to ponder agony as she lies in this cave.

Still, it is not all bad. The nibblers become her friends. Aurora has never been a person with many confidants, but she has little choice in this place. She and Luxa are at the nibblers' mercy. And the nibblers keep them alive. Not only physically, but mentally. There is Cevian, for instance. Cevian, who tends to their wounds and sits in Aurora's cave, telling stories and making up games to keep the flame of hope burning.

So it is agony, yes. It is much agony. But every once in a while, there is light. There is still hope. And Aurora does her utmost to make sure that Luxa remembers that, too.