"You, Abel Nightroad?" Agamemnon said aghast. When in the world . . . ?
A white face, almost transparent, greeted Agamemnon when he turned around suddenly. The countenance was beautiful enough for the seamen to be involuntarily bewitched; it was god-like, frozen in a frame of artifice and wearing a beguiling smile. But the instant the onlookers regarded that smile, a vision of the image of a carnivorous plant luring its prey with a sweet perfume crossed everyone's mind. Even more startling was that a Terran could approach without the Methuselah Agamemnon noticing.
"Nightroad, w-when in the world did you arrive?" asked Agamemnon.
"Let's see, about when you said, 'I'll see Count of Memphis,'" the priest answered.
Smiling as he pushed aside his long bangs, the young man sauntered into the storeroom at a relaxed pace. The black clothing that indicated he was of citizen rank fluttered ominously.
"You mustn't, Captain. I'm sure an order was given to seal this storeroom until we arrived at the Imperial capital. The order of an Imperial envoy is the same as Her Majesty's order. I have no idea what's going to come of this," warned the man.
"That's my line, Terran," Agamemnon retorted.
Stepping forward to shield the citizens who unconsciously flinched back, Agamemnon glared at the beautiful but insolent Terran. Indignation gushed forth like an aura from the body of the Methuselah, the strongest creature on Earth.
"I arrest your master, Count of Memphis, on my authority as captain. The charges are the murders of six citizens!" declared Agamemnon.
"Murder? That's a misunderstanding," said the Terran. In contrast to the infuriated Agamemnon, the young man's expression didn't change in the slightest. His carefree and languid face verged on emotionless. "He isn't killing your subordinates. He's only one person!"
"Hmph! Are you trying to protect your master, Nightroad?" asked Agamemnon, his eyes narrowing hatefully. "Those bite marks are full proof. Far from simply killing the citizens, he drank their living blood. How barbaric!"
"I'm telling you, you're mistaken," the priest contended. "It wasn't Count of Memphis who drank your subordinates' blood." His timing seemed as though it had been carefully planned.
At the same time Agamemnon noticed the strange sound of splitting wood from behind, a high-pitched scream of agony roared.
"I-Ibrahim?" yelled Agamemnon.
A bizarre spectacle played out before the Methuselah's eyes when he turned around. Ibrahim's scrawny body was caught on a wooden box. Actually, he was being gripped by an arm thrusting outward from the box. The thick appendage coiled around the throat of the screaming Terran like a serpent winding up its prey.
"Captain, h-help!" pleaded Ibrahim. "Hel — "
The feeble navigator's screams ceased when, suddenly, his neck snapped with a nauseating sound. The huge arm severed not only his neck bones but also the sinews surrounding them. Ibrahim's head, unable to bear its own weight, fell to the floor trailing nerves and veins.
"What are these?" asked Agamemnon.
It wasn't the poor citizen s corpse that caught Agamemnon's eye, however. All of the wooden boxes in the storeroom were slowly but simultaneously beginning to expand. The noise of boards splitting echoed one after the other, black shadows creeping out from their gaps.
The dark figures had strangely warped silhouettes. The men wore Outer-style black military overcoats. Agamemnon couldn't see their faces because of the helmets and gas masks that veiled them, but they were all extraordinarily large men. He couldn't figure out how such giants had hidden in those boxes.
The sickening, tacky sound of previously dislocated joints re-connecting reverberated. As soon as silence resumed, the ominous black shadows were all standing up.
"What are these?" Agamemnon moaned.
"They're Jaegers, Captain," answered the man in a pleasant tone, his face still beaming with a smile. "More specifically, they're called Auto Jaegers. They're my cute toys, made by processing you Methuselahs' corpses."
"Captain, p-please escape!" Ryustem insisted.
Prepared to die trying to save their beloved captain, Ryustem and Socorul stood tall in effort to block the towering men. They gallantly swung down crowbars toward the heads of the mysterious masses.
The Jaegers thwarted their attackers' advances with ease. Grasping the crowbars with their thick palms, they reeled in the citizens with unbelievable strength and gently embraced them, as if lovers. Before the eyes of the desperately struggling men, the Jaegers pulled up their gas masks to reveal stark white faces, like those of the dead. Some kind of exposed machinery jutted from their bald heads, and their grotesque faces revealed eyes sewn shut with thick thread. Their thick lips appeared as though they'd been slashed with a knife; and when they opened them, dagger-like sparks shot out.
"Ryustem! Socorul!" Agamemnon bellowed. But Agamemnon's screams were interrupted by the continuous echo of crunching joints. Suddenly, Agamemnon regained composure and directed his anger toward the visitor. "Damn you! I won't forgive you, Nightroad!"
"Silly you. I'm not your opponent, Captain," said the man.
Agamemnon's eyes, burning with anger, were so horrifying that any weak-hearted person would faint just from the sight of them. Regardless, his young counterpart's expression didn't waver. With a grin, he jutted his chin in the direction behind the raging Methuselah.
"A lowly Terran such as I is unworthy to be the opponent of an Imperial nobleman. After all, a boyar has to have a boyar for an opponent. Right, Count of Memphis?" the man asked.
"What?" replied Agamemnon.
As Agamemnon turned around, a blue-white light flickered in his field of view. By the time he realized it was a ball of fire floating in the palm of a human figure that had sneaked up behind him, an arm extended like a poisonous serpent and wound around the brave Imperial nobleman's throat.
The stench of roasting flesh filled the atmosphere. Agamemnon struggled to break free from the burning hand, but the strength of the young Methuselah who stood before him — Ion Fortuna, Count of Memphis — was far superior to his. Agamemnon's body, still hoisted in the air, flailed in vain.
"You! Who in the world are you?" Agamemnon asked. Amid the vile odor of burning protein, he summoned the last of his strength and spat out a pained cry. "You . . . are not Imperial nobles. . . ."
"We? We are Ion Fortuna, Count of Memphis, and his citizen, Abel Nightroad. Didn't you say so a little while ago?" asked the young Methuselah.
The Count of Memphis snickered as he dexterously snapped his fingers, when, all of a sudden, a blue-white flash burst forth from his palm. The flames blazed high with explosive energy, and were the last light Agamemnon saw in this world.
"Now, then, won't you deal with the other crew members, too, Count of Memphis?" the man inquired. Swiftly kicking away the lump of charcoal, which turned into a puff of white smoke as it rolled away, "Abel Nightroad" turned to his companion. "Take the Jaegers and finish them off at once, because I'm going up on deck. The truth is, this is the first time I've been to the Empire. I've waited a long time, so I want to gaze at it from afar."
Before the "Count of Memphis" could nod silently, the young man had turned confidently on his heel, humming optimistically as he ventured toward the deck.
Beneath the clear blue sky, the sea flashed a beautiful hue of azure as though sapphires were spread across the top of it. The Nereiades advanced through the blue light with its ill-omened black sails full. The power of its electric propulsion system, which utilized the solar power of photoelectric cells affixed to its wide mainsail, was so great that the ship maintained ample speed notwithstanding strong headwinds.
The young man leaned against the prow statue for a short time before allowing a low sigh to leak from his lips. "Yeah, it's pretty, indeed. So that's the Lapis Lazuli Wall," he said.
In the distance, two smoothly undulating shores appeared. The entrance of the ocean from the Mediterranean Sea to the Black Sea—the continental shelves that pressed in on both sides from the Bosporus Channel—flanked the outer edges of the continents that had been called Asia and Europe in ancient times. It was the meeting point between land and sea, and had become the nexus of commerce that united the two continents long before Armageddon.
Now, a stunning but very curious scene was unfolding there. A massive, dazzling sparkle—bluish-purple light that resembled sapphires—completely enveloped the channel and the banks on both sides, just like a dome. But was the event actually real? The huge blanket of light, which extended for dozens of miles, couldn't possibly be a mirage or a trick of the sunlight. Plus, it wasn't the only freak occurrence. There was also a mysterious shadow sinking slowly between the blue sparkles. What was it?
"It's beautiful. That's the Capital of the Night," mumbled the young man, spellbound.
Sealed beyond the sapphire walls were vast city streets. It was a beautiful capital city that never could have existed prior, even if various tribes had conceived of it in their wildest imaginations. Domes stood erect, narrow steeples protruded between trees, countless gates and graceful arches . . . They were the hallmarks reminiscent of an ancient city, touched by God's anger and sealed in a gem, like something out of a fairy tale.
The fact that the landscape was fast closing in on the ship served as proof that the scene was no illusion. The blue sparkles, which had been no more than small points of light minutes before, were already turning into huge walls threatening to block the ship's way.
Not appearing to be the least afraid of the walls of light that increasingly clouded his field of vision, the young man smiled contentedly. Whispering in his beautiful voice, he said, "Pleased to meet you, Imperial capital Byzantium. And goodbye, my sacrificial city."
Capital of the Night
…They have burned her dwelling places;
Her bars are broken.
—Jeremiah 51:30
I
The boat with black sails cut through the waves and advanced along the Bosporus, which shone like a golden mirror. Overhead, a shining disc floated somewhat unreliably in the blood-colored sky, half-heartedly illuminating the land. The sound of a far-off steam whistle could be heard from somewhere in the red-tinged world.
"We've arrived at last," Ion Fortuna soliloquized, pushing back his hair that the sea breeze ruffled. It was unavoidable that his shaky voice would proclaim the obvious. It had been four months since he'd seen his old home in this way, after all.
The majestic dome that cut through the quiet shadows, the steeples pointing toward Heaven, and the group of ancient castles that dotted the shoreline . . . All of them were distinctly familiar.
"What do you think, Esther? What are your impressions of our Imperial capital?" Ion asked, still unable to contain his enthusiasm. Turning sideways, he called to his companion, who'd been keeping watch next to the prow statue, which was carved into a sea sprite. "Isn't it beautiful? I know of no other sight as beautiful as this. Really. What do you think?"
"Yes, it is, indeed, a pretty town," Esther replied in a reflective tone, as she pulled the collar on her unfamiliar citizen's uniform together. She was in a far-off place, her eyes mesmerized by the wondrous panorama. "It’s really amazing, but it's too quiet. It seems as though the entire town is asleep."
"Like it's asleep? It doesn't only appear to be asleep, Esther. It really is asleep," Ion explained. Narrowing his eyes, which were the color of gold mixed with polished copper, he expounded on his comment for the bewildered girl. "It's eighteen hundred hours now," Ion said, his pale, androgynous face wearing a kind smile. "According to your senses, it's barely noon. It's time for healthy Imperial nobility to be settling into bed. But as long as that Lapis Lazuli Wall is there, there is no noon in our world."
"I see. It really is barely noon," said Esther.
Staring down at the sun's weak reflection on the water's surface, the girl, still baffled by the outside of the Lapis Lazuli Wall and its gaps, let out another sigh. A shadow flitted across her sunburned face.
Earlier, Esther had trembled considerably when the boat had passed through the wall of light that blocked its way. Until that point, the boat had been advancing along the ocean in broad daylight, but as soon as it crossed the blue light, the sky rapidly changed to twilight. If Ion hadn't caught her, she might have fallen from the deck from feeling so overwhelmed.
Of course, the blue dome wasn't a product of witchcraft; it was no more than an UV-ray polarization wall. Countless microscopic lenses covered the Imperial capital like fog, so that even in sunlight, they reflected outward the specific wavelength of ultraviolet light that was harmful to Methuselahs. Because the light of other wavelengths was filtered as it entered into the dome, the twilight scene was a constant inside the Imperial capital.
"I know it bores you, but it's strange to me," admitted Esther. "Besides, it's a little cold for November."
"Are you all right, Esther?" Ion asked in a concerned voice as he extended his hand toward her rank uniform. With dainty but nimble fingers, he refastened her undone collar button.
The collar he was wearing was unfastened, too, but because the citizen's uniform was black, the rank color of citizens, the slightest untidiness was obvious. He straightened the hem discreetly.
"Yes, this is good. Be careful, however. To differentiate themselves from slaves, citizens dress themselves neatly. By having only one button of your uniform out of place, you'll attract a lot of attention," Ion warned.
"Th-thank you very much," said Esther. "But this rank uniform is so troublesome. It's full of buckles and belts and everything."
Ion put his mouth to the girl's ear. "Yes. However, in the Empire, the style and color of clothes is strictly dictated by status and type of employment. Because the social status of we three is citizens of the Duchess of Moldova's family, take as much care with your uniform as you do with your speech," he instructed.
Sailors donning ash-gray attire had been toiling busily in the background. As slaves, they didn't usually understand the common speech of Rome, but Ion spoke quietly on the off chance that they did. Until the objective of the journey had been achieved and everyone was safe, he would have to avoid letting people know about his return. If he didn't, a few months of precious time and the trouble he'd gone to as a nobleman to pass as a mere citizen, would go to waste.
"I never thought it would take this much time to return home," said Ion.
The left bank of the Bosporus, which divided the Imperial capital into east and west was known as Rumeli, or West Bank District. It was the nobles' district, and sat upon on a rather high plateau. Nobles' mansions, called yahr, dotted the coastline with small spaces between each structure. Focusing on an unusually large mansion among them, Ion grew impatient. When he thought about how much valuable time he'd lost, he couldn't keep from furrowing his brow.
It was Ion who'd been entrusted with the great Empress Vladika's secret orders and had made contact with Cardinal Caterina Sforza in Carthage at the beginning of August. It was still summer. This time, the Empress had recently learned the name of a foreign organization connected to a number of mysterious incidents that had happened within the Empire, so she had requested the Vatican Foreign Affairs Department, her mortal enemy, to supply information about the organization known as Orden.
Cardinal Sforza didn't refuse the Empire's first-ever request. She provided all the information the department had about said organization to one of her subordinates, Sister Esther, and had Esther accompany Ion home. That, however, spawned a heap of trouble.
Pirates attacked the smuggling ship the pair used from Carthage. And as they encountered an accident, their true identities were revealed by the inhabitants of the island where they'd washed ashore and were chased around. Somehow, they'd entered port in the Imperial territory of Alexandria in the first third of October. However, unable to arrange for a surface mail ship to the Imperial capital when they'd finally made it to Alexandria, they were forced to cross over land.
The only lucky thing that happened on the journey was when Ion met an old friend in Gaza harbor, where he and Esther had stopped along the way. A subject formerly belonging to the Duchess of Moldova's family, Mimarl had been selling medicine in the Imperial capital as an Imperial citizen and let the pair stowaway on his ship, which was returning to the Imperial capital stocked with medicines. If it weren't for the stroke of luck, it would have been difficult for Ion to return home within the year.
"If I would have used my Imperial decree authority, we could've used a warship. The journey wouldn't have taken half a month, then," Ion estimated.
"It couldn't be helped. Aren't there still people trying to kill you, Your Excellency?" asked Esther.
Finally able to avert her eyes from the so-called Capital of the Night, Esther consoled the boy, who was grinding his teeth. Combing through her elegant, cascading red hair, she shrugged her shoulders with a half-resigned expression. "Let s see, I'm sure you referred to them as 'hard-liners.' If you didn't return home stealthily, who knows what injuries you might have sustained along the way," Esther pointed out. "You have to consider it a miracle that you arrived safely."
"Maybe. But . . . ehhh, damned hard-liners. I'll show them! When I report to Her Majesty, we'll strike them head-on!" Ion growled. His lips twisting, he swore at somebody who wasn't there. Still, Ion couldn't suppress his sadness from revealing itself through his eyes.
Ion had suffered a great blow in Carthage from the group called hard-liners, those within Imperial nobility who advocated open hostilities against the Vatican. They'd planned to kill him using his only childhood friend, of all people. The plot was foiled by cooperation from the Vatican side, beginning with Esther.
The traitor, Radu Barvon, Baron of Luxor, had met an unnatural end; and it was obvious that he was merely the tip of the iceberg. If Ion returned home without a care, the hard-liners would undoubtedly wipe out the new Imperial envoy before he could visit the palace. Well aware of that, he hadn't dared use normal routes this time. Instead, he returned via laborious private routes. Surely by now, the hard-liners who Ion had successfully avoided would be vexed.
But no matter what happened now, Ion's victory was already apparent. If he relied on his grandmother, Mirka Fortuna, Duchess of Moldova and the most favored of the Empress's courtiers, for the remainder of the journey — if he could secretly meet with her — everything would end safely. There had been a lot of trouble, but if he'd gotten this far, his execution of the Imperial decree would already be arranged. Yes, with this, his — no, their — -journey was over.
"Say, Esther?" Ion summoned.
"What is it, Your Excellency?" asked Esther.
The ship slowed as it approached the capital's wharf. Esther, who was staring intently at the streets of a foreign country, turned around.
"Is something wrong?" she asked.
It was the end of the journey, and Ion was trying to put into words the feelings that had secretly grown in his heart during the long journey. Gazing into the girl's sparkling hazel eyes, he hesitated to deliver the words running through his head. "Well, the truth is," he began, "I have an earnest proposition for you. Um, if it's all right with you ..."
All of a sudden, a reluctant voice cut into their conversation. "Sorry for interrupting your consultation," Mimarl said. "Young sir, may I speak with you for a moment?"
Ion turned around regretfully at the sound of a voice speaking fluent Roman. "What's wrong, Mimarl?" he asked.
Mimarl Suinan, a young Terran man, scratched his head as if puzzled. Until a few years prior, he'd been a private citizen serving the Duchess of Moldova's family. Now, he was the master of this ship.
"Is there a problem?" asked Ion.
"There is a problem, but . . ." Mimarl hesitated.
Perhaps because of the nature of his business, Mimarl's Roman was considerably more fluid than Ion's. Originally, the Terrans in the Empire were largely divided into citizens in charge of intellectual work and slaves who shouldered the physical labor. To become a citizen, one had to prove high intelligence and physical ability by passing strict tests. After passing these tests and receiving an education at a series of specialty schools following the hoped-for course, only those who acquired specific units were certified with investiture as Imperial citizens. Further, those Imperial citizens who showed special promise became private citizens, binding an individual contract with any of the nobles.
Mimarl was running a business and living in the Imperial capital as an Imperial citizen, but until a few years ago he'd been a private citizen employed by a family as notable as the Duchess of Moldova's dynasty. His superiority was guaranteed; however, his wise eyes were blinking and seemed unsure.
"It's about your other guest," Mimarl said. "What in the world is the matter with him?"
As if responding to Mimarl's voice, it was then that that moaned eerily, rolling on the deck. "Oooh, Esther, I'm a goner," Abel groaned, clumps of his disheveled silver hair peeking out from a crumpled blanket. With another weak moan, he said, "Ohhh, God, please do something about this trouble-filled life. Esther, for some reason, the time is ticking on my life. If I'm invited to Heaven, please bury me on a hill somewhere where the sea is visible. I'll watch over you always from there."
"Please don't be melodramatic from seasickness, Father Nightroad!" Esther scolded Abel Nightroad, the other Terran who'd accompanied Ion from the Outer. With an unusual expression for her, Esther put her hands on her hips and shook her head deploringly "'I'm dying, I'm dying!' Everything you say is an exaggeration. Please persevere a little. Really, even I'm ashamed."
"You say that, but I'm really bad about seasickness," Abel confessed. With religious zeal he clung to the washbasin that he hadn't released during the entire sea voyage. His eyes, the color of a clear winter lake, often reflected the blackness of his clothing. However, his face, which was handsome in its own way when he sat quietly, was dripping with tears and snot.
"To start, my stomach is twice as delicate as a human's. For example, this morning I could only eat six slices of bread. Clearly, my stomach has shrunk. Say, Your Excellency, when we arrive at your mansion, will you treat me to dinner? I'm not asking for extravagance. The servants' leftovers will be fine," said Abel.
"There aren't any citizens in our mansion," Ion explained. "How many times have I told you, there are just automata . . . Ahem. Just eat these and be quiet."
For some reason, the exchange of casual conversation between the priest and the girl had hit a sore spot. Ion tossed some rolled-up meat jerky to Abel in effort to shut up the greedy Terran. During the journey, the man's bottomless stomach had caused considerable trouble.
"Eh, heh, heh, heh. Welcome to the party," said Abel.
Ion averted his disgusted gaze from the priest who voraciously devoured the horrid-looking jerky that even a rat would hesitate to pick up, regarding Esther with a serious face. "Esther, hadn't we better abandon this guy at some point? He's come this far, so aren't you and I enough for the rest? If so—"
"Please don't tempt me, Your Excellency. I'm at enough of a loss without that," Esther replied, shaking her head in rejection of Ion's suggestion. A moment later, a bemused look crossed her face.
Certainly, if examined objectively, what Ion said was probably correct. The duty Esther had accepted from the Duchess of Milan was ninety percent complete upon her arrival in the capital city. The priest who'd stuck with them, calling himself a bodyguard, had already finished his task, but there was more to it than that.
"We really can't abandon him in a place like this. Besides, it's going a little too far to call him a burden. He has all kinds of good points, so you have to acknowledge that much," Esther asserted.
"Him? Good points? Where?" Ion asked sarcastically.
"Well, for example . . . Let's see, I'm sorry. I can't remember any right now," Esther admitted, thinking hard, until the flock of geese high overhead had disappeared beyond the sea's horizon. Finally, she raised one finger. "Look, don't they say everybody has one good trait, no matter how stupid and useless a person he is — even if he's a complete waste of life? So Abel has at least one. If we search our hardest, will we find it ... or won't we?"
"Esther, you really hate this guy, right?" asked Ion.
"No . . . well, something to that effect," Esther answered.
Clearing her throat once, the nun regarded their new surroundings. The ship was just approaching the largest mansion among those built on the shore. The main house, which featured a number of domes, had outbuildings that extended like wings, and the blue tiles affixed to one side gave it an elegant quality.
"Ah, what a pretty house. Could that be Your Excellency's mansion?" asked Esther.
"Yeah, that's our family's mansion," Ion replied.
As Ion proudly jutted out his chest, the ship entered the wharf with a gliding motion. When they docked at the pier extending from the mansion, Mimarl ordered that a rope ladder be let down.
"Esther, you go ahead a little ways. I'll be right there. And thanks, Mimarl," Ion hollered.
After watching Esther descend the rope ladder dragging the priest, who was still clinging to his food, Ion turned back to his former family retainer. Changing his tone to that of the loftier Imperial language, Ion thanked Mimarl for his trouble. "I absolutely won't forget your kindness. Won't you come in for a little while? I think my grandmother would be happy to see your face, too." Ion said.
"I'm happy you think so, young master, but I have to quickly finish unloading," Mimarl replied, shaking his head respectfully, but resolutely. "There are a lot of live things among the cargo, so please pardon me."
"I see. Now that you mention it, your business is selling medicines, right?" asked Ion.
That meant there must be some ingredients among the cargo that didn't work unless you kept them alive. Ion certainly understood Mimarl's wish to unload quickly. Not wanting to prod him further, Ion nodded his head. "Then I won't insist. However, you really saved us. I'll return this favor sometime."
"You're too kind. If I'm able to repay one ten thousandth of the favors I received from your grandmother, the Duchess of Moldova, I'll be happy," said Mimarl.
Ion offered his former family retainer a gracious nod and jumped onto the deck. Methuselahs had no need for rope ladders. As soon as he landed quietly on the pier about fifteen feet away, he started to follow the people who'd gone ahead, his robe fluttering elegantly behind him. But a faint, shrill voice called out to him.
"Um, young master?" asked Mimarl.
"Yes," said Ion, wearing a suspicious look on his face. Tilting his head as he looked up at Mimarl, he asked, "What is it?"
"Just ... be careful," Mimarl urged.
"Yeah, you, too," said Ion.
Smiling nonchalantly, Ion lifted his hand slightly. Before he'd left for Carthage, he never would have imagined he would thank a mere Terran like this. Was this also her influence?
"Sorry to keep you waiting, Esther," said Ion.
The ship had left the pier and was rapidly gaining speed. In the Imperial capital, the opposite side of the channel — the east bank — was the Terran district, densely packed with small houses, in contrast to the west bank.
Turning his back on the ship, which grew increasingly distant as it kicked up waves, Ion announced, "Welcome to the official Moldova residence. Make yourself at home. My grandmother has already retired for today, but tomorrow — well, by your senses it will be tomorrow at sunset — we'll discuss the circumstances of the matter, and arrange for a secret meeting with Her Majesty. Once we do, we should be able to see Her Majesty within a day or two. During that time, you should recover from the fatigue of your journey, and expand your perspective by looking at various things outside. Do as you wish."
"Well . . ." Esther began.
Lovingly beholding the girl's face, which appeared relieved, Ion nodded. "Yes, with this, our journey is at an end."
"Yes, I'm glad," said Esther.
No matter how hard-hearted Esther was, the work had been a load too heavy for a girl who was only seventeen. She placed her hand atop the sheaf of secret documents hidden against her chest and sighed, overwhelmed by a sense of liberation from so much pressure.
To the contrary, Ion's thoughts were complicated. Of course, he was happy that he'd executed his Imperial decree. However, accepting the end of the journey was something entirely different.
"Esther?" asked Ion.
Esther glanced up as if surprised at being addressed. "Yeah?" she asked.
Ion spoke low and thoughtfully. "It's about hereafter, but you don't intend to stay here, do you?"