Ermm, have fun. I can't think of anything else -- oh yes! Thanks, Saph. ^_^

My name is Daës-morn, and I belong to Druchae. Well, no, not Druchae, actually, for he is the Prince of Autumn, and he rules the dying. It is Nerenalin, the Winter King, who rules the dead, and therefore me.

That is, if you would believe the fools of Virengrai. They live insulated in their pretty little country, sending their children out to the Season Temples, allowing themselves to be ruled by four men who are the Chosen of their gods. The Spring God, Shay, chose Neftari, humble orphan from the city of Eurluz. The Lady of Summer, Yimithe, chose Erevel, a nobleman of reclusive tendencies. Disdainful Druchae of Fall chose Saín, a man who was, as a child, dragged kicking and screaming to the church. And Winter King Nerenalin chose Klar, a dignified tailor from the capital city of Oren.

I don't doubt that these gods of seasons exist. The Chosen serve as Foci for their gods and have wrought famously powerful magics in the past. But the Chosen and their gods are *nothing* to me, to what I have been. Do you understand? They are absolutely *nothing*.

The island of Berrinel was destroyed over the course of a thousand nights more than thousand years ago by two immensely powerful mages hurling power at each other like gods themselves, and even that is nothing, compared to me.

My name is Daës-morn, and I was born in Korisin, a small town in the Reskinikin Confederacy. I was unwanted and so I was named. "Dae," my nickname, to be pronounced the same as "die"; "morn," the same as "mourn." Later, my grandmother explained that "morn" had also been meant as a gift, so that my name could have the blush of morning.

Some gift, Grandmother.

I won't dwell on my misspent childhood. It is important only in that I came from it. As soon as I could I moved to Arlen, the capital city, a realm of palaces when you compare it to Virengai's priestly little Oren. In Arlen, I met a young man, brutally honest, powerfully gifted. He asked for help, for instruction, to manage the Seasons power rising in his blood.

I looked at him, and I loved him and said yes.

I loved him! I loved him more fiercely than an eagle loves its chicks, a wolf its cubs. His huge gray eyes held my world within them. He moved with such natural grace, he lived and breathed the Seasons, his mind was so agile and inventive, and I found him so utterly entrancing. I wanted him with me always. He was *mine*, and I was terrified of him ever leaving me. I did everything he asked of me. I loved to hold him, to touch him. I loved to breathe in his scent, nuzzle his silken neck. I showered him with kisses and attention.

But what most reveals how lost in love I was is this: I taught him all I knew.

I had learned much in the thirty-odd years of my life, and he was the sole heir of that knowledge, which is nothing to be scoffed at, because it was a knowledge so vast that lesser mages called me out to try to wrench it from me. For my name is Daës-morn, and Reskinikin bred true at last, when it spawned me. Through me, animals speak, write, fight, die. I have the power of wolves and vines, birds and berry-leaves -- helplessly drawn to me, they do my bidding. I encompass all the earth, and there are those who would kill to learn how.

But Saher of little Virengrai had the Seasons power, forcing the cycle of birth and death and calling forth the storms of each season - - spring rain, summer heat, autumn wind, winter cold.

Our powers mingled easily. We had no idea how fearsome they would be when pitted one against the other.

I loved Saher to death, up to the last moment when his hand fell, cutting a harsh arc through the wind-whipped air, and his lightning pierced my tattered shields. I burned alive and saw the white-hot flash of my death in his cold eyes, and yet I loved him. But the hate kindled in me too, hate that he could betray me so -- *me*! Kings had begged for my aid in battle and proudly I had refused them, and yet this slender little goblin creature mocked my devotion and rejected *me*!

So with the explosive energy that is caused by the death of such an awesomely gifted magician, I cast a curse upon my beloved, reckless, overconfident Saher.

Innani, curse of the empty. Each day is new for him: the sunlight in all its golden glory, the sunset drenched in the scarlet of its passing, the moon a pale round face in the folds of a black spangled shawl. Come dawn and the past day is wiped from the slate of his memory.

He would have erased me from the world of Laile for no more reason than he was bored with me and thrummed with power, and magicians believe that turnabout is fair play. I have always thirsted for vengeance, I can't stand being taken advantage of, and so my Saher remembers nothing of Virengrai, of Arlen, of his lover and instructor Daës-morn.

Most ironic of all, he knows nothing of the Seasons power he once held so proudly. Ah, Saher.

He is a secret tucked safely away in the corner of an exalted whorehouse for pretty boys, some of whom I have heard would kill for such amnesia as I have given Saher. The last gift I gave to my splendid student, and he can't even properly appreciate it. Saher.

You had to ruin it for us, didn't you? I loved you more than life itself. I proved that with my death. I loved you and I love you still, you inconsiderate arrogant devil-angel!

The flame of that love is all that keeps me on this plain. I bolted myself to the earth with the scope of my bitterness and hatred and sorrow. I have given myself a mission, and I will only allow my soul its final rest when I have completed that mission.

Saher loved Virengrai. He told me more than once of the beauty of the Seasons' Passing, the masquerades staged, the elaborate costume balls, the peculiar but prized Virengese poetry. He explained to me with that plain unashamed honesty that undid him what it was like to be Virengrese, and his joy in his nation almost made me want to defect and join up with one of the Temples. He always did have a way with words.

A pity for little Virengrai.

I will grind that nation to dust. I will erase every trace of Virengrai from the face of Laile! If Saher ever remembers Virengrai he will dismiss it as a vaguely pleasant dream, because no one will be left alive to remember with him.

Then and only then will I relinquish my ephemeral hold on this life and succumb to the judges of the Hereafter. I don't care where I go. I will have taken my full vengeance upon the man I used to love and love still. Saher, I will drag you with me to the next world. You will be judged by my side for the crimes you've done to me!

I would ask you to think back and reflect, but it's a lost cause. *Remember?* You can't.

Look out the window, Saher. Dawn comes.