Ilysa knocked on the door to Averny's room again. This time there was a mutter from within that vaguely resembled the words, "It's open." As Ilysa entered, dull eyes raised slowly to meet hers. The golden-brown orbs were rimmed with red. Averny slumped lifelessly in his chair. He looked very tired, as if he were very old and wished for peace he had never found in life. "Ilysa." The word seemed hollow. "Ilysa," he repeated. His mouth worked, but he was unable to manage more. "What's the matter, Averny? What's happened?" she asked anxiously. She knelt before him, like a supplicant before her king, and her eyes gazed up at him with concern. "Have you heard already?" He rustled a sheet of parchment he gripped in his hand, trying again to manage words. "Read it. Just read it." He handed the parchment to Ilysa, who took it uncertainly. She read: "Greeting, Prince Averny. I pray that this letter reaches you. I wish I could have communicated with you concerning more pleasant events, but my wishes seem to be worth very little these days. "There is no good way to say this; believe me, I've tried to find one. Averny, your brother Daric is dead." Ilysa gasped, and her hand involuntarily rose to cover her mouth. Averny motioned vaguely with a hand. She continued to read. "Your brother was killed at night by a new initiate, just accepted that day. She was a young woman. I was not there for her testing, and I cannot help but think that I might have sensed something about her had I met her, but the woman who tested her sensed nothing awry. "In the young woman's room was found a short letter. It seemed at first innocuous, but within it contained dark tidings. It seems that the young woman was an initiate of Darkness. I have sent High Priest Kindar a copy of this letter. You may ask of him to read it and witness these tidings yourself. "Prince Averny, I am truly sorry for your loss. I offer my condolences, as little as that probably means. Your brother was a fine student and an outstanding person. May the One we both honor, whether we call him the Shining One or the Burning One, comfort and protect you during this difficult time. High Priest Phair of the Order of the Shining One" Ilysa looked up from the letter. A great well of emotions sprung up within her, and they flooded her insides, but no words came to her lips, and the emotions continued to swell. "Ilysa, Ilysa," Averny moaned. "I...am I still here? I am still real? Nothing makes sense. Everything seems dull, manufactured, unreal. Everything...." Ilysa gripped his hand tightly in both of hers. Daric was silent for a long time as he stared absently into space. "...father? I should go back." His voice sounded strained, as if the very act of talking was laborious. "He'll be heart-broken." Tears began to trickle from Ilysa's eyes. "Averny...I came here because a messenger...your father...." Ilysa averted her face suddenly. Daric's hand trembled beneath hers. She forced the words out. "The king, your father, he's dead. Poisoned." It was as if some invisible support had been suddenly pulled from Averny. He folded in on himself, his head coming to rest on Ilysa's shoulder. He slid off the chair, limp. Ilysa wrapped her arms around him and they huddled on the floor, holding one another gently. Their tears streamed noiselessly down their faces, wetting each other's clothes. Except for the occasional sob, it was silent, oppressively silent, as if no words had yet been invented. But no word had yet been spoken that could have filled the void within them. Perhaps, there would never be a word deep enough to hold the meaning of a tear. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Gates of Time An Improfanfic begun by Lady Brick This chapter by Stuart Lem Chapter 6 -- "Tears, like Seconds Falling into Eternity" -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The doors to Kindar's office burst open, and Averny covered the distance to his desk with three long strides. "I want the letter!" Averny demanded. Kindar looked at him with solemn eyes. "Prince Averny, calm, please. We must be able to think rationally, especially in the light of such chaotic and unexpected events." "Rationally?" Averny leaned over the desk and grabbed the collar of Kindar's robe roughly. "What's rational about angering a man who just lost his whole family, Kindar?" Kindar looked coolly down at the hand at his collar, then directly into Averny's eyes. "There are times when emotions must be put aside until there is an appropriate time in which to deal with them. We have been granted reason for a purpose, son. And you will, continue to address me as 'Father.'" Averny held him silently for a long moment then pushed Kindar away. Averny turned, walked away, then straight back again, as if he didn't know where he was going. "Father?" He snorted derisively. "He's dead, remember! Now, give me the letter. I am the rightful king now, so you must obey." Kindar shook his head slowly. "No, the Temples have always cooperated with the king, but we are a separate entity, tied not to any nation, but to the Burning One; but in keeping with our history of cooperation, you shall have the letter." Kindar opened a drawer, pulled out a sheet of parchment, and handed it submissively to Averny. Averny snatched it from his hand and began to read intently. Kindar took the opportunity to study the red-haired young woman who had entered silently after the Prince. She was a new initiate, he knew, and her name was...Ilysa, he remembered. Her hands were clasped before her as in prayer, and her lovely face was marred by sorrow. She was too concerned with watching the prince's reactions to notice Kindar's gaze. Averny threw the letter back onto the desk with a growl. "It doesn't say anything! It's a letter, just a letter from her mother." "Son, you must learn to be more penetrating. The Order of Darkness is not about to make everything crystal clear to the chance reader. Most of the letter is useless, yes, but not all of it. Take the last few lines: 'I know you are scared, dear, but I will always be near you, unseen, watching over you. The One Who Foresees All will bring you through safely. When you sleep, sleep easy, even as royalty does upon a bed of ease, for your dreams are in the midst of coming true. I love you. Good luck. Mother'" Averny laughed bitterly and began to pace furiously. "You expect me to believe that 'sleep' may mean death and 'dreams' some vague allusion to reward? I better watch what I write and say. I might be planning the demise of millions when I say I'm tired of the world." "Averny, listen," Kindar said sharply. "You may be more correct than you realize in the meaning of those words, but that is all speculation without the key: The One Who Foresees All." "The Burning One, you mean," Averny said. "Or the Shining One, I suppose. Same thing in any case." "Most would call it blasphemy to call the Shining One and the Burning One the same, but you know more history than most. But this does not refer to the Burning One, also a common mistake. The Burning One knows all; therefore, the term 'foresee' is an invalid word. But this is splitting hairs." Kindar leaned forward in his chair. "You may remember from history that centuries ago, before the peace, prior to and intertwined with the beginning of the war with Corneria, there was a hidden Temple of Darkness. The ghost stories and legends children tell and hear nowadays are largely based upon some semblance of this truth. "One of the great lures the Darkness had over the powerful was the promise of a future as *they* desired it. Our most accurate records tell of men and women who would suddenly receive their heart's desire--wealth, revenge, a lover, whatever- after being promised it by agents of Darkness. During those years this title, the One Who Foresees All, rose in relation to the Lord of Lies." "Father...." The red-haired girl fidgeted nervously with her hair as she addressed the high priest. "When I was in the caravan,"--she blushed slightly at the indication of her low rank--"there were some who talked about strange things. I thought it was junk. Stuff about another way out, about power and riches, revenge...." She faltered; she still wanted revenge, also. "Could it be this Darkness again?" Kindar studied her, then nodded thoughtfully. "It may be." He turned his eyes to Averny. "Here is what we do--" "I am king!" Averny's face flared crimson, and Ilysa backed away from him with fear in her eyes. Kindar barely blinked. "I will not have you trying to tell me what to do any longer." "Well, then, your Majesty, what do you suggest?" Not a hint of mockery was in his voice, but there was little respect. Averny continued to pace the floor. "We're leaving. Everyone. Now. We're going to the Temple of Light." Kindar raised his eyebrow. "It will be done, your Majesty, but may I inquire as to the purpose of this journey?" Averny's face was inscrutable. "Because I said so." -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- A streak of red bled slowly across the green plains from its origin in the Temple of Fire. The red-robed initiates were bewildered. Rumors wandered haphazardly through their ranks. They were marching for the Palace. No, they were to attack the Temple of Light. The prince was mad with grief. Kindar was controlling the grief-stricken prince. His brother was dead. Murdered. He had committed suicide. Averny rode in the lead on one of the few horses not laden with supplies, completely oblivious to the rumors and doubts behind him. Kindar rode at his side, trying to converse with the prince, but Averny remained silent and unresponsive. He stared dully ahead, slumping in his saddle. It was as if the heated passion he had displayed before Kindar had drained him of the last of his energy, and now he merely exited, half-awake. Kindar eventually gave up trying to hold a meaningful conversation and fell back to talk with several last-year initiates. Ilysa also rode at the prince's side, but she had no words for him. She watched him anxiously. She could see the despair on his face, in his eyes, echoing a vast void that still gnawed within her. Tears seemed to be continually creeping out of her eyes. Averny hurt, so she hurt, but she could not heal either of them. She didn't know how. They traveled silently, solemnly, as if in a funeral procession. The afternoon wore on and the sun began to sink before front of them. Suddenly, Averny seemed to awaken. "Ilysa?" "Yes?" she asked anxiously. "You will be my queen, won't you? I need you, Ilysa. I...I think I love you, but I need you." He paused. "We'll fix all this, bring back peace, won't we? Won't we?" "Yes, Averny, yes. I will. We will," she said breathlessly. He looked so helpless and defenseless, like a lost child, all alone. "Do you want me to ride with you?" A faint shadow of a smile crossed his lips. "No. Not yet. I have to think." Any trace of the smile evaporated, and his expression was desolate once again. "So much to fix. So much." The last rays of the sun hit his face, and then it was night, and time to find a place to rest. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The next day, Averny stood before the Temple of Light, a sea of red behind him, billowing gently as the breeze tugged at their robes. The pristine marble steps rose before him, and at their summit stood High Priest Phair, flanked by teachers in purple-trimmed robes on either side. Averny was erect, noticeably rigid, proud in manner, indiscernible in aspect. He gazed imperturbably up at Phair. "Do you bring war?" Phair asked quietly. A wave of emotion flashed over Averny's face. For a moment he looked as if he didn't know what he had brought, as if either way the question was answered, it meant the same to him. "I bring myself and those who follow me," he said. "I do not want war. It is not inevitable if we do not make it. We have had enough sorrows," Phair replied. "Perhaps," Averny said with a wry chuckle. "Yes, perhaps 'we' have had enough." He began climbing the stairs. "I want to talk to the girl." "Prince Averny, I have tried several times. It is no use." "I will talk to her." His voice was cold and sharp, like a knife. "I am king, now." Phair bowed. "Yes, your Majesty." -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- An empty room had been converted into Joy's prison. There was nothing but a cot within. A brilliant light infused the room, keeping Joy always in the brightness, never in the shadows to hide or cower. Guards were stationed outside the door. The guards were useless, though, except as a show of procedure. For nearly two days Joy had lain curled in a fetal position, blankets gripped tightly about her, muttering ceaselessly. Sometimes she would suddenly begin to scream, an awful scream, full of terror and despair. She slept sporadically, often after bouts of terror. She ate little. Her sheets had been changed once after she had soiled them. Averny entered the room, followed by Phair. Joy's gray eyes shone with tears as they stared fearfully at her hands sitting before her nose. "I'm sorry, sorry, sorry, so sorry, sorry, so sorry, sorry...," she moaned pitifully. Her right hand clenched suddenly as if grabbing something, and she let out a shriek of terror. Her eyes squeezed shut and her hands covered her eyes. "Sorry, sorry, sorry, so sorry, sorry," she continued breathlessly, clinging to it like a litany of salvation. Her tiny chest heaved violently with teary gasps. Averny looked back at Phair, stunned. "She did it?" Phair nodded. "With a kitchen knife." Averny's expression hardened again. "What's her name?" "Joy." "Seems to me that she's the one who died," he muttered to himself. He walked over to the cot, towering over her. "Joy?" Joy continued her litany in between gasps. "Joy, I'm Prince Averny." Joy's head whipped toward him, her eyes like reflections of the moon upon rippling water. She squealed in terror and scurried to the corner of the bed. There she cowered, curled into a tight ball, trembling violently, a tangle of delicate skin and bone. Averny turned to Phair. "You were right. This is useless. Come with me; we must talk." -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Yumina watched as the lines of white-clad initiates wandered out of the Temple. They congregated at the bottom of the stairs, apart from the initiates of Fire. Yumina could feel the tension between the two groups; she could almost see it, like the shimmering of air on a scalding summer day. Mutters, curses, taunts bubbled on the surface, but fights or other actions did not occurred. Orders from both High Priests had forbidden it. Yumina had done nothing since she had planted the letter in Joy's room and insured the safe and swift delivery of Phair's letters to Averny and Kindar. Events had begun to unfold, ripples had begun to spread outward faster and further than she could control. But things were going much as she had planned. She had sensed Averny's desire to unite the Temples of the Shining One against the Temple of Darkness. The critical juncture was coming where everything would either break down, or an alliance between the Temples, albeit an uneasy one, would be formed. She didn't know if she could affect the outcome of that juncture if she needed to. She wasn't even sure she wanted to. She had been watching Joy a great deal lately.... That terrible emotion from the night of the murder still lurked within her, like a dull pain, but she continued to ignore it. It would have to go away eventually. Averny walked out from the grand Temple doors to the summit of the steps. He looked noble and tragic, framed by monstrous pillars on either side. The crowd below grew quiet. "When I was young, my father would require my brother and I to be tutored by the greatest scholars of Sankria." He spoke without any hint of emotion, as if he was eternally calm, frighteningly calm. "He would counter any complaint of ours concerning the stupidity of the lessons with ten reasons why we needed to take them. Just today I remember complaining about our lessons in History--three hundred years of peace is stultifyingly boring, especially to a boy who had weapon training the hour before. But I remember what he said. He said I had to learn History because it had the tendency to repeat itself. "I, quite frankly, thought this was a stupid idea. I still do. "But now I understand what he meant. Moments don't repeat--each one is unique-- but the forces behind those moments, behind Time itself, remain constant: love and hate, right and wrong, truth and lies, good and bad, however you wish to define it. It is the pull, the tension, between these two extremes in which situations reoccur, experiences are relived, the commonality of the human experience is forged. "In these days the pull of Darkness again grows strong and is felt as it once was, long ago. My father was poisoned, my brother murdered. The Darkness is abroad again." He paused then, scanned the crowd, then bellowed at the top of his voice. "It is now that we recognize the pull and resist it! It is now that we stand firm to the peace and goodness which we cherish and love! It is now that we prove that we will fight for that peace which yesterday was ours! It is now that we send our message throughout the nation that justice will continue to be done and evil will continue to be punished!" He motioned behind him. Two large muscular men, one in red and the other in white, heaved a large block beside Averny. Another two, similarly dressed, led Joy, her hands bound, behind the block. Averny was handed an axe. Murmurs ran through the crowd. Joy's head was forced to the block. She trembled violently, but she didn't resist. Tears streamed from her eyes, and her litany of apologies streamed from her mouth, one apology melding into the next. Her gray eyes darted about frantically, but they seemed to see nothing. "This girl, as have all heard, is the murderer of my brother. She is an initiate of Darkness. Justice begins with her," Averny said. Averny took his place at the side of the block. His mind was a maelstrom, branches quivering, colors shifting. The snowflake-leaves rose a glassy din as they clanged and clashed in an invisible wind. There was doubt, anger, compassion, confusion, and despair all intermingling. Averny studied Joy for a long moment. He hesitated. The crowd below waited, expectant, though for which result they did not know. Averny raised the axe. The maelstrom subsided for a moment: Decision. "For the good of Sankria," he muttered. His hands gripped the axe handle tighter. The axe fell. Yumina forced herself to watch. Even when Joy's head fell and bounced hideously down the stairs, she watched. It landed between the groups of Fire and Light, in the grassy separation between them. Joy's gray eyes stared lifelessly upward, as if searching for stars. Nothing moved and everything was silent. Yumina thought she heard a final whisper of Joy's litany; but it wasn't Joy. It was Averny. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. Then he leaned the axe against the block and turned to the people below. "This is the blood forging us together! This is the act that sets us upon our course! Send messengers throughout the nation to tell all they meet of what has happened here! Our destination is the Palace and our goal is Peace!" There were no cheers as Averny walked away. Only murmurs and mutters, hushed discussions and shocked speculations. They were moved, either by loyalty to the prince or by the power of the execution, but few were completely convinced. The Temples had suspected each other for too long for complete trust to be won so quickly. Yumina barely noticed the confusion of emotions drifting through the crowd, like dyes through water. She was preoccupied with the realization that the execution had been quick and silent. There had been no thunderous, sundering crack as the axe hit the block, no scream of terror to mark the ending of a life, no gasps of horror from below. A second of time, a moment in eternity, and it was over. That was all. As the emotion within Yumina began to swell, she concentrated on the messengers being sent out. Her plan might succeed yet. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The room was dark except for the purplish flame that populated the walls with nightmarish shadows. A fetid, swampy odor emanated from the room, and the air hung heavy, but not with moisture--with thought and concentration. In the back of the room, seated upon a large, crudely constructed throne, was a pale body with long, thin limbs and a round, swollen belly. Its spidery hands rested lightly upon the throne's arms. Its lips were thin and gray, its head bald and leprous. It had no eyes, only blanched, limp skin hanging in bags over the sockets. The creature had given them up long ago for greater eyes--those that ever looked upon the tapestry, that could spy its subtle movements and shudders. A figure appeared before the throne, clad in black pants and red shirt. "Brother," Beliel said. "Averny makes for the Palace." The eyeless creature made neither reply nor movement. "Have you decided upon a course of action?" "Yes," the creature said after a moment. Its voice was powerful, as if it issued out of the depths of deep thoughts. "We shall attack." "Attack? And reveal ourselves and our numbers?" "We have already been revealed," it replied. Only its thin lips moved. "Send everyone against them." "Together, they will defeat us." "Yes. But victory breeds pride and arrogance. There are other ways to reach the prince besides physical attacks. He is already confused and power may make him foolish. In due time we can move, subtly, after they believe us destroyed." "And that girl Yumina's concerned with, Ilysa?" "Idiocy. She had no power except what we granted her in the previous timeline. Let Yumina play with trifles. Let us concern ourselves with greater things. One human never changed History without first obtaining power, and Ilysa is now a peasant, devoid of the power she had been granted when in our service. She is useless." Beliel bowed. "Yes, brother." Then he disappeared. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- They attacked from every side. No one knew how they had approached so near without detection; some sort of shadow magic, they supposed. In an instant, as they suddenly appeared clad in shrouds of black, frantic fighting consumed the forest path the two Temples had been traveling along. White- and red-clad students fought side by side and back to back against the incoming hordes. In the trees a dragon of flame roared and its fire singed the leaves. A row of shadow soldiers dropped to their knees, hands over their eyes, blinded by a Light spell. Ilysa lost Averny in the chaos, and she was left to defend herself. She knew only one spell well and another in theory, having been at the school for a few days only. She managed to propel a fist-sized fireball at one soldier and kick another one from her horse. She scanned the area frantically for Averny. She sighted him, in front of her, to the right. She urged her horse toward him. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed something that resembled a cloud of wasps. It shot in her direction with incredible speed. Before she could react a shadowy dart stung her arm. Another pierced her neck, and one her leg. Cold fingers spread from the darts, like ice flowing through her veins. She struggled to move her limbs, but they seemed heavy, encased in stone. Her horse stumbled beneath her, a half dozen darts dissipating slowly into her gray body. Ilysa was bucked violently forward and rolled off the horse. She landed roughly on the ground, her limbs unresponsive. Boots ran swiftly past her limp head. Ilysa soon began to lose feeling in her body; it was as if she was a lost spirit, watching everything, and she felt her life dwindling as the final vestiges of feeling and heat evaporated from her. Then her senses began to fail. The din of the battle became an indistinguishable rustling located in a corner of the world. The activity before her eyes dimmed, and colors faded into monotone. Shapes faded into pencil sketches drawn with the lightest lines. A vaguely oval shaped loomed before her and something within it moved gently up and down, up and down, like a gentle wave. Then slowly a severe chill covered her body, as if she had emerged from water into a bitter wind. The chill dissipated, feeling and warmth returned to her body and coherence to her thoughts. The vague outline before her had been replaced by a man's face. He was smiling kindly at her despite the battle raging nearby. A black soldier collapsed behind him. "You'll be fine now," he said. Ilysa, still disoriented, scanned him quickly with her eyes. He was wearing white trimmed with deep purple. His hair was thick, but whiter than his grimy robe. His face was creased numerous times and vaguely resembled a weathered map of some river's delta. "Who are you?" she asked, and fear was in her voice. Why should a Light Priest save her? They hadn't saved her father. Arrows bounced off some invisible shield around the man. "A teacher at the Temple of the Shining One, and a supporter of uniting the Temples. But we must go now, before things become too complicated here. Come, Ilysa. I'll protect you." He rose slowly, his knees unaccustomed to the act. "How do you know my name?" She awkwardly crawled to her knees. Her limbs were stiff still, as if she had not used them in a week. He chuckled. A group of men with flaming swords swept past them. "You're more famous than you know, Ilysa. Rumors say the prince plans on taking you as his queen, and for once I think the rumors hold a great deal of truth. Stay close and follow me." She followed him as he wove his way away from the main battle. At times, shadowy darts, arrows, misdirected flames, nightmarish serpents, and other projectiles crashed against the shield and dropped uselessly to the ground. When a soldier dashed toward them from time to time, the teacher would blind him with a few words and continue on. His concentration was on her safety, and the shield was solely for her protection. The teacher was immensely courteous and friendly, as if he was spending time with his favorite student outside of class. Somehow, despite the ubiquitous death and destruction, he smiled and comforted her. She hated it. She couldn't hate him; she loved him for all he did. But thirteen years ago she had sworn to revenge her father's death. The teacher's kindness rankled some dark part of her, and her thoughts became bitter and sarcastic. She could sense the change, but she couldn't resist it. She hated those thoughts. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Averny surveyed the battlefield, though he didn't see the point. His soldiers were dead, and there was nothing he could do but bury them. Nothing at all. What had been forest now lay smoldering, tilted, splintered, and hewed. The trees were barren and black if they stood at all. A grave for his soldiers was being prepared, and a pyre for the shadow soldiers. He walked the length of the battlefield. He saw several good friends lying dead and a girl he had dreamed of marrying when he had first come to the Temple. Nothing to be done about that. "Prince?" a first year said hesitantly. Averny turned languidly toward him. The first year held out a folded sheet of parchment as if that explained all. Averny took the sheet and the first year scurried away. Averny unfolded the parchment and read: "Dear Averny, "I don't know how to say this because I love you, but I can't be your queen. You are noble, high-minded, kind, honest, but I'm just a peasant I know that doesn't matter to you, but with my low station come base thoughts unworthy of a queen. You and your nation deserve better. Your vision of peace and unity exemplify the person I love, but I can't support you in those goals like you deserve. I can't explain any more; I'm ashamed of my thoughts and of the feelings I'm having. I'll always love you. I'm sorry. Ilysa" The parchment slipped from Averny's hand and landed in ash upon the ground. Nothing to be done about that either. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The villagers cheered as the Prince passed by their one- and two-story houses and stores. News of their victory over the hidden enemy, over the followers of Darkness had already reached them. Here was the to-be-crowned king, the victor triumphant, on his way to the Palace. The Temples were united, bonded against a common enemy, and the red and white walked side-by-side, waving at the frantically excited villagers. The crisis had been averted, the enemy slaughtered, peace regained. Averny forced a smile and waved blandly at the crowd. It all seemed futile, so utterly empty. Ironic. He was to be king, but it was the crowd that cheered. Then, as he waved again and his horse took another step, as the villagers surged forward excitedly and the claps and cheers continued on as they had the moment before, Averny found a wooden shaft in his chest, rolled of his horse, and died. The cheering stopped. The procession halted. All was silent and no one comprehended. Phair knelt down next to Averny's body and felt for a pulse. Then he looked up and, as if this were all just a play and he just an amateur actor, said for the benefit of the audience, "He's dead." -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Yumina's knees gave way of their own accord. Why hadn't someone shielded Averny? Why hadn't he been more cautious? Why hadn't he...? Because despair had draped Averny in its thick, smothering sheets. Because victory had intoxicated even the serious and thoughtful. She could go back in time, before the arrow struck. She could influence Phair or another of the Light initiates. She could. But she didn't want to. In that moment, she realized she hated this reality. It dragged at her, ponderous as a lodestone about her neck, a hideous brand of shame and guilt. She had committed an act of tyranny, had inspired the tragedy of an innocent, and the consequences had rippled outward in waves of despair, sorrow, and hopelessness. She had witnessed many sorrows and tragedies before now, but they had been of humanity's doing, not her own. She had allowed them before, never caused them. The very goal she had sought after, had planned and strove for, had been within her grasp, could still be, and now she reviled it and refused it. The murky emotion that had lurked within her so long crept up to her throat, constricting it, and to her eyes, filling them. Behind her, a deep-throated laughter mocked her tears. Beliel's laughter. Hatred buffeted her--hurricane winds to complement the dark, torrential feel of tears. "This is your doing!" she said through gritted teeth. He laughed again. "No, but I wish it was. It brings such *joy* to my heart to see it all crumble around you." Yumina's fist clenched spasmodically. "But no, my brother had decided that we should bide our time. Not my favorite tactic, but I've waited three hundred years since the last time, so what's a few more?" "Who then? Who?" "I don't know myself, but I think the guards have captured your culprit and are bringing him about now." Yumina turned her head to look, purposely avoiding the sight of Beliel. The crowd was being forced apart by guards, but their prisoner was not a male. They led a woman, shabbily dressed, her face expressionless. A soldier carried her weapon, a simple, sturdy bow. That dark emotion swelled again, more powerfully than ever, and Yumina jerked her eyes away from the scene and away from Beliel. "You know her, then?" Beliel asked, curious and amused. "It's Joy's mother. And that bow, it belonged to Joy's father." She couldn't stop the words. They needed said. Perhaps, somehow, the words could begin to justify the act and fill in the emptiness within herself. But the words seemed so flimsy and empty that they were useless. "I didn't even know their names." "Joy's parents?" Beliel laughed. "This is more perfect than even my brother could have arranged. But what's the use in knowing names? There's millions of the creatures, and they're always dying anyway." A sob, perhaps the first of her long life, escaped Yumina's lips. "Are you crying?" Beliel asked. He sounded as if this was a delightful turn of events. Yumina didn't answer. "I can fix that, Yumina. Come, be my lover." "What do you know of real love?" Yumina said angrily. "Love between a mother and daughter, between brothers, between young lovers?" She was nearly composed, but water still blurred her sight. "Real love?" Beliel repeated skeptically. "Nothing at all. It's too subtle and complex to be manipulated in humans and too demanding and fragile to be worth it to me. Greed, envy, hatred, lust: these I understand. They will move any human worth moving, quicker and more efficiently than any "noble" virtue or emotion would. Noble or ignoble, they're just flip sides of the same coin, in any case." "No." From some long forgotten place within Yumina's mind the words came. "No. Greed, envy, hatred, and lust are not opposites of noble virtues. They're perversions." Again, Beliel laughed, as if this dark reality was a carnival. "Say what you want." He walked slowly around to Yumina's front, and Yumina stared directly into his eyes, unblinking. "I want you," he said. His voice was deadly. Yumina remained motionless, stone-like. Then she rose majestically to her feet, and her figure shimmered. She appeared much more noble and proud than she felt. "You would only soil me, Beliel." The smile dropped from Beliel's face, and a desperate, furious aspect took its place. His red eyes flashed maliciously. "Soil you? Soil *you*?" He laughed bitterly. "There is no difference between us, Yumina. What makes your manipulations any more "right" than mine? What makes your desired future any better? You still use them like puppets. You still make them do your bidding! All your high thoughts only bring you worry and trouble. Come with me and I'll show you ecstasy and pleasure!" "We are different," Yumina said defiantly, but her mind reeled. They were different, weren't they? Weren't they? "You serve Darkness." Beliel smirked scornfully. "And who do you serve? The great and powerful nation of Sankria? What's the future in that?" "What do you mean?" "Are you so naive that you don't understand the situation you are enmeshed in? Tell me this: Do you remember the country that existed here before Sankria?" "I...no, I don't," Yumina answered uncertainly. She had never thought about it. "I remember the birth of Sankria's first king, but before that--" "Nothing. You didn't exist. You were birthed with the beginning of this temporal nation and you shall die with it unless you join me. The Darkness has been around for a very long time, nearly from the Beginning. But continue as you are, and despite your power, despite everything you can do, Sankria will not reign forever." Beliel stepped toward her and roughly grabbed her chin in his hand. He forced her to look up at him. His fingers ran slowly through her hair. Yumina's fist clenched tighter, drawing blood. Beliel continued, breathlessly, "Yes, you have power, dear Yumina. Immense power. Do you think I can manipulate Time as you do? They'd be hundreds of splintered realities if more than one of us could, one for each of us. But your Sankria is the largest and the most powerful nation on the planet." Beliel leaned in close and whispered in her ear. "I want you, Yumina. I want you now." His head tilted down to kiss her neck, and Yumina pulled frantically away, shutting her eye against everything she had seen, everything she felt. She flung herself recklessly through Time and Space. Instinctively, she knew where and when she was. Without hearing the pained, labored gasps and the encouraging murmur, she knew. It was dark when she opened her eyes, and fire made shadows dance upon the walls. On a bed, the queen was giving birth to Averny and Daric, a midwife with her. Had Yumina been a different person, or perhaps the person she had been a few days ago, she would have considered killing them. But now Yumina watched as a void grew within her, and into the void crawled that persistent emotion, still lurking, and it grew, grew. Yumina had experienced very few human emotions intensely. She understood them cognitively, as one understands a color by recognizing its particular shade. But she had *felt* hatred course through her at Beliel's presence, and terrible sorrow upon first seeing the battlefield where Averny, Daric, and Ilysa had died. Before her now was the product of a love, a passion, beyond her experience and understanding, except in strictly biological terms. A passion mysteriously endowed with life from beyond and given physical form: the birth of every human. An emotion, deeper and darker than any she had yet experienced, finally broke against her; no longer lurking it swelled throughout her body, and large tears ran down her face. Yumina experienced despair. She hugged herself and shuddered gently as she cried. She felt as if the tears would run on into eternity, and Time became a futile construction of her own making. And once she muttered, "I'm sorry." Whether it was for Averny or Daric, Ilysa or Joy, she didn't know. Perhaps, most of all, it was for herself. END -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Voice of Stuart Lem (Author's Notes): First, I'd like to thank Lady Brick and Mechalink for prereading again. Thanks! Second, just a few story notes. This is a dreadfully depressing chapter, but it'll allow authors to struggle along with Yumina in finding how she *should* go about doing her thing. As I see it (and future authors may not) the character of Yumina and the condition of Sankria are interrelated; they affect one another, but neither is controlled (under normal circumstances) by the other. Imagine, for example, if Beliel was in Yumina's place. What would Sankria be then? I guess, in any case, I created more problems than I solved, so sign up! Help restore peace to the nation. Help mend the broken pieces of poor Yumina's soul! I'd love to hear any feedback. And I'd be more than happy to help any future authors. Just drop a note at stuartlem@hotmail.com. Thanks!