"I am known as many, different things to many, different people," the boy said in a voice that was the shiver of bells, "But you may call me Takeru. . . ."

Frowning to herself, the girl looked at him. He smiled back at her, his lips very red in his pale face. His black kimono shimmered in the half-light of the hallway, and, for a moment, she thought the fish on it were moving. He had called himself Takeru and she was in no position to contradict him, but every instinct told her that there was something very wrong about that. But it could just be the general wrongness of this place that’s giving me the creeps.

She wished she could find some logical basis for her suspicions, but she could only settle on the way he spoke Japanese. He spoke the language with the precise, accented slowness of a foreigner, almost as if he had to think of every word before he said it, yet Takeru was a Japanese name. It wasn’t much of a reason, but it was enough to cause her to squeeze the jade statuette that she was holding. Its cold weight was a reassurance in itself, and she briefly wondered if she could move fast enough to knock him out with it. She dismissed the idea, as she remembered how he had seemed to sense where she was hiding. She had the odd feeling he knew what she was planning, for all the smile on his face had not faltered.

For all her doubts, however, she also realised she would eventually have to trust somebody, if she wanted to get home. Until that moment, her only thought had been to escape the castle undetected and improvise from there. Now, she realised how foolish that had been. Even if she had been successful, she did not know where her home was. She had hoped to piece it together on the run, but she knew she could not rely on her memory returning to her. Her past was still a chaotic swirl inside her head. Oh, she could have asked people, but the chances were that they either would not recognise her or would not be able to tell her. She doubted they spoke Japanese wherever she had ended up. Worse, she had no money, decent clothes or food. Finding a friend might be a matter of survival as much as it was a matter of escape. Why shouldn’t it be this boy with his steady, grey eyes?

I was alone when I awoke, so there’s no way he could know about me calling that name, she argued with herself. He has to be the real Takeru. And I must have trusted him then, if he was the first person I thought to call for help. So, why shouldn’t I turn to him for help now? Do I even have a choice?

She was so tired of feeling alone and helpless. It would be nice to lean on someone, to let someone take care of her, not to have to worry about her next move.

"You’re Takeru?" she said eventually, her grip on her makeshift weapon loosening.

"Yes, I am," he spread out an arm, "And this is my kingdom, Y’ha-nthlei."

The strange syllables rippled off his tongue like water. In response, the walls of the hallway seemed to rise and fall, as if they were skin and muscles were moving beneath them. She put out her hand to touch one, and it felt oddly warm and yielding to the touch. She almost thought she could feel a pulse thrumming through the structure. For a moment, she wondered if Y’ha-nthlei was alive, then dismissed the idea as ridiculous. Her imagination had to be playing tricks on her - it was probably the stress of waking up in a strange place as a stranger to herself.

She turned back to him, hardly daring to ask the question that had been on her lips since she had woken.

"Who am I?"

"You are Umi, the future queen of Y’ha-nthlei."

"Umi . . . ." she repeated the word. It sounded strange on her lips. It meant ‘sea’ or ‘ocean’, she remembered. It was an appropriate name for the future queen of a place that could have been dredged from the bottom of the ocean, for the ruler of a shipwreck kingdom. It was almost too neat, a little voice whispered.

Suddenly, the implications of his words hit her with the force of a tidal wave. If this was his kingdom and she was its future queen, then she was his fiancee. They were engaged. She remembered her young, pale face in the pool of water. She had not looked much older than thirteen, not much more than a child. If the reflection was true - and this place was strange enough for her to doubt it - she was years too young to marry. And this Takeru looked only a little older than she did. There was something wrong about that as well, although she could not place precisely what it was. (1)

He must have seen her doubt, because he hastened to reassure her: "We shall not wed for many years, of course. Our hands have been joined in marriage since our births, but our hearts have only become one in recent months," he paused, his grey eyes pleading, "If you remember nothing else, Umi, you must remember your love for me."

Looking at him, Umi felt the fog in her mind part. For the fraction of a heartbeat, a memory clarified before slipping back into grey confusion. She was lying laughing on the ground, while cool, cherry blossoms drifted down on her. A tall, slim boy - a dazzling smudge against the sun - was pouring them down on her and he was laughing as well. And, even though she could not make out any of his features, she knew it was Takeru and she knew that she loved him.

Again, however, the same sense of wrongness prickled the back of her neck. The memory was genuine, she had no doubt about that, as was the love that was sunshine-warm and -golden inside of her. But she had the strangest feeling that the Takeru of her memory was not the Takeru standing in front of her. Don’t be stupid, Umi. Who else could it be? How many Takerus could you possibly know? She pushed her doubts away from her, and turned to him with a radiant smile on her face.

"I do, Takeru. I remember."

"I knew you would, my love," he returned her smile, "But we can talk more later. You must be famished after your long sleep. I have ordered my servants to bring food to your room. I also have taken the liberty of instructing them to set out more . . . suitable clothes for you," he held out his arm to her, "Allow me the honour of escorting you, although I fear I am unable to join you. I have other business."

Feeling like she was walking in a dream, Umi linked his arm with his and allowed him to lead her to her room.

******

"Enjoy your meal, my Umi," Dagomon called, as he walked out of her room and shut the door behind him. He made sure to turn the key in the lock, before continuing up the hallway. Tomorrow, he would tell her it had been for her own safety. Even though he did not think she would try to escape again, he could not take the risk of losing her. She was the only one who could save him from annihilation.

For centuries now, his power had been failing. A god of beginnings, he needed new worshippers, new voices raised to him, new blood consecrated to him. His Deep Ones, his old and faithful servants, were not enough to sustain him. But people had begun to forsake him for other gods, gods of purity and peace. His nature had frightened them, his rituals had repelled them. There were only a few who remained true, who remembered the old ways and who prayed for the sea-change. His centres of worship had been all but forgotten. Crosses had been erected in the gardens of his churches, or statues of the many-armed god had been placed on their altars. His monoliths, scoured to smoothness by years of sand and water, had been claimed by goddess-worshippers. They wreathed them with flowers, and saw the first mother in their pregnant bulge. Even wonder-haunted Innsmouth had been razed to build a smart, new harbour. And Y’ha-nthlei died every day with Hydra. (2)

Soon, he would also die, if the Shining One and her power did not become his.

With some relief, Dagomon neared his throne room. He had underestimated how difficult it would be to assume and maintain a human form. His skin seemed to hurt him, as if it were too tight for him, and white pain shot up his calves at every step, as if he were treading on knives. He looked behind him in mild surprise. Stretching off into the distance, his bloody footprints were vivid against the white floor. He lifted a foot in his hand, and saw that its sole was raw and bleeding. Still, it was a small price to pay for his bride, if it was the only way to win her.

Wincing, he limped the last, few steps to his throne and collapsed into it. As he did so, one of his Deep Ones came up to him with a bowl of water in his webbed hands. He bowed deeply, before he placed it on the floor in front of him. Dagomon dismissed him with a curt nod of his head, then waved his hand above the dish and muttered a spell in a low voice. The water clouded and cleared to reveal his future queen. She was standing next to her bed, naked except for her cotton underwear, picking up one kimono after another and holding it up against herself.

A smirk curling his lips, Dagomon thought he would watch her for a while.

******

(1) For the three people who don’t know this, Takeru is apparently a couple of months younger than Hikari. (I didn’t know that until about a week ago, but I’m slow . . . )

(2) "Wonder-haunted Innsmouth" is a direct quote from Lovecraft. Hydra is Dagon’s consort in the books. For those who aren’t up on Classical Mythology, she’s the many-headed monster whose heads were chopped off by Heracles only to have the neck-stumps sprout new ones. I know I mentioned her in an earlier part, and this note should have been there.

******