"Sir!"

A tall, white-blonde haired man stood at a window. Framed by light and dressed in dark attire he was a silhouette of determination and focus. Straight-backed he stared out into the city of Beinost, over his failing gardens and quiet driveway, all the way to the partially occupied city. In his hand he gripped a long cane made of maple wood, and on the third finger of his right hand was wrapped a ring. A ring of a dull grey colour holding within it a small blue stone. A stone that was not precious in any way, that did not have facets like a jewel, but instead was powerful beyond ages and for the first time in a year it was steadily pulsating with a dim, indigo light.

"Sir," gasped the voice behind him as the tall man's eyes dropped to the ring. "Sir, she - she has ..."

"At last," the god Vitruvion whispered. And his eyes began to shimmer with hope. Finally, finally with hope.

Swiftly, he turned, his black coat-tails flaring. He stepped over the unpolished floor, the scattered papers and the twisted rug and stepped out of the room. Passing the four-poster bed whose covers were all askew he avoided the mirror that had not been cleaned in a long time, merely because of the lack of organisation around the house. And the fact that Vitruvion hardly let anyone into this room. Her room.

Her room. Stare's room. His steward who he had been waiting to awake from her period of unconciousness for over a year.

Not for the first time in that time, he sent his conciousness through the ring. And found the instant connection for the other piece of metal and tiny scrapes of the same blue stone afixed still around her wrist. As his awareness swam to her conciousness he was delighted to find not the dullness of a still mind, but rather one that was grasping at life once more.

His pace quickened. Heading straight for the stairs he shoved memories at her, memories of him, standing there at the window and trying to poke at her mind. Memories of the torture he forced on her through their mental connection, all in the hope that she would respond. Memories of no reaction at all, of her blankness, her plainess, her endless void of non-responsive attitude, as the spells of nourishment and good health kept her alive as they pulsed around the room as faint lights.

Memories of how the house and his various projects had fallen to part or complete disrepair because she had not been there to manage them.

He gave her memories of the accident. That he had put her through, facing up against the psychic god-dragon Mewtoo, all in order that Vitruvion could gain further power and further knowledge. Shove her against the white dominating beast, he had concluded, use her powerful stare. Thrust her straight into the path of Mewtoo's damaging blows and have them fight whilst he snuck around to find what he desired.

Sacrifice her, whilst he satiated his own curiosity.

A deed which had never been completed, because of Vitruvion's stupidity, and Mewtoo's ultimate power. Stare had fallen down, unconciousness, lost the power of distraction to the god-dragon. And Vitruvion had had to run, deciding between the power here and she who he often boasted was his most precious possession.

At the bottom of the stairs, he began to run, eyes full of passion, hair streaming behind him.

I regret what I did, he desperately said to her, in honesty that had never once been uttered before. Truly, Stare. I am sorry. Now keep coming back to me, my dear. Keep coming. Keep ...

All those months of staring at her body, staring at her mind. Those days of trying to distract himself from the realisation that he blamed himself for this all. Him, a god! Earth-bound, yes, but he was surely above this, surely above theguilt of saving a mortal ... Surely?

Right?

Cane thrown to the side he clattered through another door and down a tight stone stairway, descending into the basement. A place they had used to use as a testing arena for her accumulating powers. There, on a table, Stare - also known as Avis Tsakaka, her birthname - had lain in comfort and care for just over a year, with the globes of healing encircling her and keeping her form alert. As he came down, he saw that someone was with her, an arm around her shoulders, holding her up as she shook and gulped in air, barely able to -

"Give her to me," Vitruvion spat at the servant.

A look of fear. And a nod, with arms holding the kenku's feathered and now awake form out. Reaching out, Vitruvion pulled her to his chest, feeling the alertness and the acknowledgement within her mind. Now no longer a void, now no longer nothing.

The god relaxed, and he sighed, wrapping his arms around his steward.

"You have come back to me," he whispered to her. "After all this time. You have obeyed me, finally, and come back to me."