Ivy

[King Ghidorah]

Even though she rarely slept, Isolda van Harnburg didn't like to go out after dark. It was an old aversion, one that she'd carried with her from an old country in a dying world, but even now the shadows made her uneasy - which was why even at midnight her garden was full of light. 

The high walls of the ballroom-sized enclosure, open to the sky and lacking doors or windows, were curtained top-to-bottom with a thick overgrowth of luminescent ivy which glowed a harsh and penetrating shade of sapphire-blue after sunset. Among the flowerbeds alabaster lilies and golden crocuses shone soft white and creamy orange in the moonlight, their petals gleaming with subtle halos. Patches of thimble-cap mushrooms cast their weird off-yellow glow across their little domains of rich black soil, and vast carpets of soft red moss gave off brilliant violet hues. Even the little ornamental pond which decorated the center of the grounds was a source of light, enormous colonies of bottom-dwelling iridescent algae creating a very slightly greener shade of blue than the ivy on the outer walls and transforming the tiny silver fish that lived among them into darting nodes of glinting brilliance; The underwater aurora was so strong that its rays were visible even against the spectral symphony of the rest of the garden, dancing above the surface of the placid, clear water. An exotic willow tree, gleaming from within in tones of lustrous silver, overhung the pool's mossy banks.

Only the winding, rust-red gravel paths which meandered across the grounds offered no contribution to the koleidoscopic explosion of warm, vital color. Within its eccentrically-lit walls a person could believe that the entire night-time world was composed nigh-exclusively of blended shades of living light.

This was Isolda's favorite place. It was separate from her uncle's paltry gardens. Nobody else could come here - the outer walls were twice as high as a man, abutting an easterly section of the castle's outer fortifications, made of thick granite blocks and sealed tight save for the occasional storm-drain too narrow for even a squirrel. Tending her garden, shrouded from the world by curtains of impenetrable blue ivy, she could believe that all her wars were over, and that the strangely hollow stars overhead really meant her no harm; Sometimes, fertilizing the mosses or sitting under the willow tree and watching the fish, she was even able to forget about the ghosts.

[King Ghidorah]

She was sitting on a little stone bench beside the crocuses, watching confused fireflies weave strange patterns above the glowing water when the two tiny women intruded on her sanctuary. 

The strangers appeared from behind the silver willow, each barely six inches tall, with deeply pale vaguely olive-colored skin, large almond-shaped eyes, and shiny black hair. They wore soiled red-and-orange dresses, the stains and dyes appearing wild and strange in the blue-and-violet organic light, and little dirty white caps that resembled the stamens of flowers. Their faces were identical, round and sincere and smudged with grime, and as they picked their way daintily across the softly glowing turf their movements followed each other almost exactly. 

The sight was so unexpected that it took a moment for Isolda to process what she was seeing;  her eyes widened raising old worry-lines in her forehead, and when the miniature moving shapes and colors finally resolved themselves into a coherent idea in her mind her first reaction was an instant of unthinking fear. The young noblewoman's pulse quickened. Unquiet spirits cried out in her mind, and she jerked upright. Tension and the relaxed potential for violence sang at odds in her slender frame as she reached to her side for a weapon that wasn't there, the instincts of a previous lifetime flaring, drawn out by the fulfillment of a paranoid expectation for the surreal which she'd never managed to shake.

Finding herself unarmed, however,  her grasping hand catching only the folds of her plain muslin nightgown, the momentum of panic was broken; Isolda closed her eyes and forced herself to breath, clenching her fists and counting backwards from ten as her pulse slowed. The rumblings of the dead subsided, albeit grudgingly - and all around her pale feet, pebbles and bits of florescent moss tumbled back to earth.   

Her ghosts were quiet most of the time these days, but always restless, murmuring softly in the back of her mind - and Isolda's spectral passengers were never entirely  safe, still filled with all of the old rage and confusion, ready to lash out at the first sign of anger or frustration or sorrow. 

Whoever these tiny people were, Isolda thought, they'd certainly done nothing to deserve any of that; This wasn't Aurelios - it wasn't even the Pale Moors, for gods' sake.   

She opened her eyes to discover that the two little women had halted their progress and were standing ramrod-straight and stock-still, back-lit by the pond. They regarded her with extremely worried expression on their faces and their hands over their tiny mouths. Subdued and languid, ghosts curled invisibly around them, sampling their thoughts and emotions.  Isolda could taste it: The miniature twins were scared, but they were also very worried about her.

The heiress of Castle Harnburg sighed, reaching up self-consciously to fix her hair: She'd kept it long since first coming to Camelot as a sort of declaration of intent, but that meant that if she didn't have it braided the auburn locks always went a little crazy when something surprised her. They'd tumbled down across her bony shoulders and were threatening to get in her face. 

In perfect unison, the tiny women spoke, their voices high and quiet. 

"We are sorry! We did not mean to frighten you!"

With sartorial order restored, Isolda shook her head, stepping forward and crouching low on the gravel path in order to better address them, smiling with her eyes. The bright, pure luminescence of the crocuses and the pond cast shades of soft, competing brilliance across her colorless gown and raised strange shadows on her proud, narrow face. "You don't need to apologize," she said. "I just don't usually meet anyone else in my garden, is all. Who are you? I would guess you came in through the storm drains?"  

The twins bowed once, flawlessly in-synch. "We are the servants of Mothra - and we do not mean to intrude, though we like your garden very much! But it was vitally important that we speak with you!"   

Isolda realized she mas smiling. The tiny people were incredibly earnest - you couldn't help but like them. The smile faded quickly, however, as the implications sank in: The noblewoman knew about Mothra; She was standing in the room when her uncle's court wizard had first described the 'bug lady' to the Duke, though neither man had been able to see her. If these twin fairies served Mothra, then this was almost certainly something that the heiress didn't want anything to do with.  

"Well," she said, swallowing her sense of foreboding, "you've certainly got my attention, and nobody will disturb us here. What was so urgent that you had to crawl through a storm-drain?"

[King Ghidorah]

The little pair looked at each other and nodded, then looked up at Isolda and said exactly what she'd hoped they wouldn't say:

"It is about King Ghidorah! You must help us!"

An image of a hungry golden face, bold and beautiful, thin and cruel, flickered across the walls of the noblewoman's mind. She'd been alternately avoiding and stalking the brass-bodied barbarian ever since the day he'd first appeared at Harnburg Castle, when they'd caught sight of each other in the hall.

The ghosts had roared at his presence. Ghidorah dragged a psychic miasma of bloodlust around in his wake that was so thick it practically stuck to the walls; Just being around him made her hear distant screams, smell and taste the complex tang of burning cities; it was enough to push Isolda towards an adrenaline-fueled flashback, which was something she could absolutely not afford to let happen inside the castle. 

She wanted to stay out of it. It was the Duke who had invited Ghidorah into the keep, and him who was using the beast as a pawn to further Harnburg's interests - a move which the heiress didn't approve of, but did understand. She even understood the ruthlessness with which the monster was being deployed, although it had been disturbing to see how easily the man who raised her ordered the destruction of the elves. Still, all of that fell under William Conrad van Harnburg's pervue as the ruler of the valley; He knew what he was doing, and the bare fact of the matter was that Isolda  didn't want to be involved. 

Isolda had gone to a lot of trouble specifically so that she would never have to be involved.

Yet, at the same time, she couldn't ignore the obvious danger. Servants had begun to disappear from the castle, and it was getting harder and harder to find a room in the keep that didn't contain echoes of the monster's killing intent: a psychic impression of blood and fire that never entirely went away. After overhearing (eavesdropping, if she was entirely honest) the spymaster Chatterly discussing Mothra's warnings, the noblewoman had taken to following Ghidorah at a safe distance, borrowing the phantasmic qualities of her ghostly passengers and travelling unseen.

What she'd witnessed so far did little to ease her worries. Old instincts were stirring, a familiar sensation of impending, inevitable doom, and Isolda's dearest wish was to let someone else handle it.  

Her greatest fear was that nobody else would. 

"I don't see what he has to do with me," she said, her voice only wavering a little. She shifted her weight, ruffling the fabric of her nightdress as she tried to find a more comfortable position. Gravel crackled under her feet. "Ghidorah is my uncle's creature, not mine."

The fairies shook their heads. Their synchrony was broken for a moment when only one of them paused to wiped a smudge of dirt off her face. "He belongs to no-one. Your uncle uses his power and malice to destroy, but does not understand their extent! You are the Duke's only family - Please, talk to him!"  


A small twinge of relief that they hadn't asked her to fight- didn't know that she could - colored Isolda's thoughts. It passed quickly, overtaken by a complex shadow of dread, apprehension and guilt; there was a time when she would have spoken with her uncle William about this already, if not simply ambushed Ghidorah herself. 

Ever since the golden Prime had showed up, her comfortable sense of distance from the world had been shrinking. If she did as  these tiny women asked, the heiress feared she'd be unable to maintain her treasured isolation - but if she did nothing, there was a real possibility that the choice would be taken away from her entirely.  

"What would you like me to say? My uncle is the ruler of the valley. If he doesn't want to do something, there's little I could do to persuade him."

The two miniature faces took on an almost militant caste, highlighted by the harsh, yellow-green glow of a nearby mushroom. 

"That he must stop defending Ghidorah, so that Mothra may destroy him! You must convince your uncle to help us, or at least to withdraw the protection of his spies! We have been watching him. If it is from you, we are sure he will heed your words!"  

Isolda stood up, unfolding from her crouch like some sort of enormous pale fern, and turned away from the two tiny women, folding her arms over her unremarkable chest. The noblewoman stared at the florescent ivy that graced her garden walls, trying to drown her swirling thoughts in the placid blue glow. Risks she didn't want to take and outcomes she didn't want to contemplate clamored for attention she hated to give. Behind her, the fairies huddled close, whispering nervously to one-another. 

The last time she'd been this unsure about anything, she'd been seventeen years old. That hadn't ended well for anyone.

Isolda heaved a sigh, the motion shifting her gown off of one shoulder. "I'll talk to him," she said, turning her head to look back at Mothra's messengers. Several strands of hair fell across her face. "but it will be on my own behalf as much as yours. The way he's been acting lately bothers me... And in any case, I cannot promise he'll listen."   

The fairies bowed low. "Trying is all that we may ask! Thank you! We will pray for your success!" 

A grimace flickered across the heiress' smooth features. She didn't know how much longer she could keep the ghosts quiet in the face of her own increasing agitation. The fairies hadn't noticed it yet, but the fireflies were leaving, their tiny spirits dampened by a rising tide of the restless dead, and a mildew scent was beginning to creep in beneath the smells of clean water and healthy soil. 

"Please - just try to stay out of sight," she said. "My uncle's spymaster isn't fond of intruders, and I doubt that either of you deserves Chatterly."

Leaving the garden was easy. Isolda walked through the wall, passing through the glowing ivy and the stone behind it as though they were mist; they even seemed to swirl slightly for a moment in her wake. It was something nobody else in the castle could do, a gift of her ghostly entourage, and just one more reason why the garden of lights was hers and hers alone.   

Deciding what to do had calmed her down a little bit. As she padded barefoot and shrouded from sight across the night-time cobblestones of Castle Harnburg, taking great care not to step on anything unpleasant, Isolda reflected that she had lied to the fairies about her relationship with her uncle. 

Yes, he had raised her, in another place on a dying planet. Yes, here and now he was master of the castle and the valley in which it lay - but she was actually quite positive that he would listen to any concerns she might have over how he was running the fiefdom; He might not agree, but he would certainly listen.   

After all, leaving aside the old and bloodstained bonds of doomed struggle that were shared between them, uncle William was only the Duke because, when summoning the Castle, Isolda had given him the job.

[King Ghidorah]

*     *     *

William Conrad van Harnburg's study was on the Northern face of the keep, and it had a fantastic view. A broad oriel window  dominated the exterior wall, overlooking the majority of the town; cottages and half-timbered buildings curled away around the edge of the lake, mere shadows beside a pool of molten glass in the dawning light of the morning sun. Some miles distant, past small stands of conifers which appeared smoky and indistinct in glare, were the valley walls. Tthe crimson cliffs that bordered the lake giving way to steep, rocky hills speckled with pines, far less forgiving than the gentler slopes further up the basin. As the sun rose the stones glowed in striking shades of red orange and red, setting the cliffs and hillside outcroppings ablaze. 

In front of the window, positioned to take maximum advantage of the view, was an ornate cherrywood desk, inlaid with a a gold-leaf ivy motif and carved so that the legs resembled the talons of a bird of prey.  It was equipped with a matching chair upholstered in deep red leather, so dark it nearly blended with the timber. The room's wainscoting complemented the furniture, and the carpeting matched the upholstery: deep shades of crimson with an ivy watermark and suggestions of raptors. An expansive lacquered bookcase laid claim to the easterly wall, occupied by hide-bound tomes and various curiosities ranging from a small bronze telescope to the taxidermied head of a stegosaurus to the scorched white helmet of a Coruscant storm-trooper. Pride of place on the wall opposite the shelves belonged to a large oil-painting set in a gold-leaf frame, depicting a three-masted schooner struggling triumphantly in a choppy sea; The sky in the painting was violet, as was the light upon the sails, and speckled with the faint suggestion of stars. Other, smaller maritime images and various portraits of people who had never lived in Castle Harnburg (or anywhere else in the Omniverse) formed a constellation around the frame. 

The room smelled of leather, wood and candle-wax, and besides the desk, the shelves, their contents, and the paintings, there was nothing else in it except the door, which was varnished and had brass fittings but was otherwise unremarkable, and a small chandelier, currently unlit; the Duke liked to be able to move around when he was thinking, and this was not a space for receiving guests.

William Conrad van Harnburg was only recently awake and still in his nightgown, admiring a small portrait of a plump woman in a large, lacy hat when Isolda strode through his bookcase as if the sturdy carpentry and the wall behind it were made out of smoke. She'd changed into her day-clothes - one of her many green silk dresses - but her hair was a mess. 

The Duke had gotten very good at detecting the morbid change in the air when Isolda entered a room agitated and without using the door; He'd had a lot of practice. The master of the castle took a step back from the paintings and turned to face his unexpected visitor, contriving to raise an eyebrow in a way he thought suggested discerning curiosity, but actually created an impression closer to mild indigestion. He was genuinely surprised to see her: Usually, at Isolda's insistence, the two of them only met for their thrice-weekly family dinners and the occasional state function.   


She padded over to him, silk-slippered  feet whispering across the carpet, and gave him an efficient sort of hug around his narrow shoulders. The Duke returned it, and, affectionate formalities observed, they separated. 

"Isolda," he said, a wan little grin gracing his jowly face. "What an unexpected pleasure."  

His niece started to smile back, but the expression died before it could form. "We need to to talk, Uncle William." 

The Duke sighed, self-consciously tightening the sash on his gown. Isolda hadn't wanted to talk since just after the founding of the duchy. They would discuss the state of his fiefdom in broad strokes, or her efforts in gardening in great detail, or, very rarely, the things they had accomplished together before William Conrad was a titled aristocrat - but their conversations were never urgent.

It wasn't hard to deduce what it was that had upset his niece. There was only one thing happening in Harnburg that was both powerful and distressing enough to break her out of her treasured psychological shell of detached privacy. 

He tried very hard not to be glad about it. 

"Yes," he said. "I expect that we do. This is about Ghidorah?" 

The room grew marginally colder. The bronze telescope shifted on its fittings. Isolda nodded, and took a deep, steadying breath before she spoke.

[King Ghidorah]

"I want you to reconsider co-operating with Mothra. King Ghidorah isn't a... I hesitate to call him a person, actually, but whatever he is, it isn't something we should be in league with. I don't want him in our castle."

A flicker of surprise and consternation crossed the Duke's pudgy face. He hadn't realized that Isolda knew about the bug-like Prime's anti-Ghidorah campaign, but he supposed he should have expected it - she had her own ways of receiving information.

He crossed the room, his wool socks rasping silently against the carpet, and pulled the chair out from his desk. Turning it around to face his niece, the Duke sat down and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his bony knees.

"My dear, the situation surrounding Ghidorah is complicated.... but never let it be said that your uncle doesn't appreciate your perspective. Do explain."

Isolda folded her slender arms, chewing nervously on her lower lip. She fiddled with one of the mother-of-pearl clasps on the sleeve of her dress as she assembled her thoughts.

"As you say, it's complicated. Of course you know he is unpleasant, that he's a monster and a killer. That's why he's useful to you. I understand that. But you can't perceive the psychic mass of - of atrocities that he wears like a crown. The sheer poison... uncle William, I've never seen anything as mindlessly vicious as him. Anything. You of all people know what that means. " 

The Duke nodded, his face an immobile, attentive mask. "I do." 

His niece continued, gathering momentum: "It drives the ghosts crazy. Just having him around makes them agitated, and every time he looks at me, the things they can see in his mind... burning cities, burning skies, burning continents! Entire oceans draining into great steaming rifts in the ground! He imagines the murder of everyone he sees, and its never the same twice. I can't even walk into a room he's visited without receiving an impression of some vividly visualized horror! His presence is polluting the whole castle! It's like... like being back home! "

Isolda's final word produced a single dull echo, muted by the carpet and the room's poor acoustics, but the effect was enough to give her pause. She realized she was shouting, and that frost was creeping across the windows, the wainscoting cracking apart, the carpet moldering beneath her feet. Picture-frames shook, straining against their mountings, and small unsecured objects rattled on the shelves. 

The Duke waited patiently while Isolda forced herself to calm down and a faint chorus of angry voices faded back into imperceptibility. Slowly, the spectral signs of decay retreated from the room; the walls and the carpet were restored to pristine luxury, but a scent of mildew lingered, and his breath still misted in the frigid air. 

The miniature gallery still quivered, though the pictures no longer threatened to fall. On the bookcase, the little telescope had begun to float.

"If I have to keep being around him, I'm afraid I'm going to start having flashbacks again," the noblewoman said. She was breathing slow and deep, her voice rigidly quiet. "There have been close calls already. Ghidorah makes me feel as though I'm under attack, or will be shortly."

Her uncle sat up, stroking his double-chin and nodding his understanding. He bit the inside of his cheek. Even if he hadn't cared about his niece (which he did) this was a significant problem; Isolda was very powerful, and if she began reliving events from their home-world she might very well destroy the castle. 

He steepled his fingers beneath his chins. "I see. Is that the sum of your concerns, then?"

Isolda walked to the bookcase and gently pushed the little bronze spyglass back down onto its mounting. Her other arm remained clasped tightly across her chest. "No," she said, still facing the shelves. "Servants have been disappearing, and you don't seem to care - and the very first task you gave the monster was to destroy the elves in the western forest. That wasn't like you  - or at least, I'd thought not."

She looked back over her shoulder, studying the Duke. His dark, scraggly hair was dusted by frost and his doughy face was beginning to turn rosy from the chill. "I don't like how having a thing like him at your disposal is making you act, and I'm afraid of what's going to happen when he stops playing whatever insane game is restraining his blood-lust. " 


Isolda's dress rustled as she turned fully away from the bookcase, facing her uncle squarely once again. Her expression was grim. "Mothra presents an opportunity to stop this  while you still can, and I think you should take it," she said.

[King Ghidorah]

The Duke stood up, locking eyes with his niece  and pulling his burgundy robe tighter around his shoulders. The climate in Camelot was typically unwaveringly temperate, but confronted with Isolda's arctic unease he found himself regretting that his study had no fireplace. A silence unfolded between them; He was a collected early-morning mess, mulling over her arguments and accusations as the ornately furnished chamber grew colder; She was unnerved, pale and intense, awaiting his response.

Eventually, the Duke's shoulders slumped. "You've chosen a most unfortunate time to take an interest, Isolda." he said.  "I am walking a very treacherous path.... although I will acknowledge that as the stakes have risen the notion of consulting you had begun to cross my mind."

He turned away from his niece, escaping from her gaze. "There is no proof that Ghidorah is behind the recent disappearances, but I am not blind, nor am I as callous as you would have me seem. Just because I haven't taken action doesn't make me unconcerned; the fact that the monster's presence is so distressing to you only clarifies my decision:  he will be barred from the castle. More severe measures, however, especially co-operation with Mothra, are not a course I'm yet willing to pursue."

Isolda's eyes widened in incredulous surprise, her eyebrows climbing very nearly up to her hairline. A crack began to creep its way across one of the study's frost-rimed window-panes.

"Why in the name of the broken sacred not?"

The Duke sighed, trying not to shiver as he watched the tiny fissure spread across the glass. He was sure it was a metaphor for something. The man spread his hands, still not looking at his niece. "Because I don't trust her; Because she has her own agenda, and becoming reliant on her will weaken our position; Because word of Ghidorah's 'heroic deeds' has spread beyond our borders, and garnered the interest of powerful people; Because the potential gain outweighs the risk; Because events have been set in motion that can't be easily reigned in, and great power will be necessary to navigate them successfully. There are other, less interesting reasons as well."

Isolda' expression collapsed into a tight, narrow-eyed frown. "What events?"

"Shatterdun's economy is failing," said William Conrad van Harnburg. "I hadn't expected it to happen so soon, but the other duchies are pouncing on the opportunity we've created by cutting the Countess's supply-chain. The market for her goods has dried up, and her borders are collapsing. If we're to capitalize on this situation the way I had  hoped, without being marginalized by the more powerful nobles, Ghidorah will need to be utilized in a more... active role."

Isolda crossed her arms over her bust. The temperature rose abruptly, bringing with it a strong scent of mildew. Strange shadows gathered in the corners of the room. "And if he turns against us? You must have a plan, you always do, but how much destruction will he cause before we can contain him? What if Mothra interferes regardless? What if I have to fight?  Uncle, this could ruin everything you've built! If not by Ghidorah's hand... then by mine. I know you know that."

The Duke paced around the side edge of his desk, running his fingers along the gold-inlaid edge. He peered through the window-glass at the town and the lake beyond. Condensation ran in rivulets across the panes as the frost melted. "It could," he conceded. "Which is why, following the upcoming gala, I'm sending Ghidorah to Shatterdun with Chatterly. Their contingent will spearhead the annexation while I raise the call to arms."

Isolda's expression became completely flat. Above the wainscoting the shadows began to lengthen and writhe. The noblewoman was caught between two conflicting reactions; Elation that the monstrous threat to her languorous solitude would soon be far away wrestled viciously with a nervous apprehension that letting her uncle handle this his way would end with everyone dead and everything on fire. This didn't feel like a permanent solution.

“And what happens after that?” she asked. “Once we've secured the Countess's territory, will you get rid of him?”  

The Duke didn't say anything; he knew he didn't have to. His niece's ghosts could read his spirit, and they whispered the truth, chittering and moaning.

“You still hope you won't have to. You think that by baiting Mothra into attacking him, and then defeating her, you can make Ghidorah afraid of us. Do you think you can intimidate him...? Uncle William, that's insane!”

As Isolda's incredulous anxiety peaked, the window exploded outward in a catastrophic rush of hissing glass and breathy, bodiless voices, raining glinting debris upon the courtyard below. A burst of pleasantly cool morning air cleared the mustiness from the room, replacing it with the scent of pine-trees and the lake. William Conrad sighed, and clicked his teeth. Isolda put her hands over her mouth.

“... sorry.”

The Duke turned away from the window. His smile was strained, although the tension was mostly lost within his jowls. “Dear girl, did we have to have this conversation in my study?... no, don't answer that. You're ethereal informants are right, of course. Sending Ghidorah away to fight does serve the interest of baiting a trap – but you must understand that Mothra defeated our golden friend not long ago. It's had quite the mellowing affect on him. If we were to defeat her, there's no reason to think the effect wouldn't be equally dramatic. Gratitude may be an alien concept to him, but he does understand fear.”

Isolda felt as though the floor were dropping out from under her one brick at a time. She could see the shape of his reasoning, but to the noblewoman it stank of justifications. She dropped her hands to her sides.

“Why do you want to hang onto this beast so badly?”    

For a moment the Duke looked piqued – and then a look of stunned epiphany flickered across his face. For an instant, his other qualities seemed to drop away, leaving a skinny, fat-faced stranger with messy hair standing beside a broken window in an expensive nightgown. When it passed, the Duke almost looked sad.  

His answer was spoken in the tones of a man explaining to his child why the bank is taking their house.

“You know, I've been dreading this conversation, or one like it, ever since you summoned me, but now that its here I think I know exactly what to say... Isolda, do you think you're the only one in this family with ghosts? Mine may not be as literal as yours, its true, but they are there nonetheless. You've said that my behavior has changed since Ghidorah came to our valley – it has not. It's only just now that you've noticed that I'm not the man you persist in seeing when you look at me. If you wanted your kindly, competent, but somewhat bumbling uncle William to rule this valley, then you should have plucked me from a time before we spent several years together failing to stop the end of the world! I refuse to relinquish Ghidorah for the simple reason that I no longer have you.”

Isolda stared, her auburn hair fluttering stringily in the breeze from the broken window. Her uncle began to pace around the room, gathering momentum and anger as he talked.

“You've locked yourself away from the world – and I've done my best to accommodate that. I understand, and I want you be happy – I really do, and if you needed isolation, I was willing to give it. But in doing so, you left me alone. We speak often, but we never talk, not about matters of consequence. In this strange new world of ours I had thought I'd be able to rely on your insight and power, as I did in the old, but you want no part of that life anymore – so I must look elsewhere if I'm to play on a grander stage than this bucolic valley. Chatterly's skills were an early boon, but the monster is a superlative weapon whose budding fame and power allow Harnburg to excel! I walk a razors edge in using him – I'm not a fool, Isolda, and I remember well what happens to those who attempt to tame that which is beyond their capacity; I will take steps, of course, precautions aforethought are required, but I will continue to employ Ghidorah for as long as I'm able. If Mothra has a problem with that, if she wants to push me back down among the minor barons who fancy themselves dukes of these lands simply because she fears the beast I ride, then no matter how pure her intentions may be I'll give her no quarter!”

William Conrad van Harnburg breathed heavily for several seconds, leaning against the bookshelf. Isolda patted him on the shoulder. Her mind was whirling with a combination of guilt, epiphany, and subtle anger, but her spectral chorus was oddly quiet.

“... and if I have a problem with it?”

The Duke straightened, waving her off. “Then you will have to take action, either to persuade me – and I will not be easily persuaded - or to side against me in order to eliminate the monster. In either case I will have at least achieved a first step towards extracting my niece from her shell. I have missed her, you know.”

Both of them were silent for several moments. The picture-frames rustled on the walls, but it may have just been the wind. Absurdly, both van Harnburgs began to chuckle.  

“I hadn't realized we were both such messes,” Isolda said. She was crying a little, but it was a strange relief -  It felt good to connect emotionally with a real person again, even if the subject matter did make her want to scream.  

“I'm not a mess, dear girl. I maintain my facade splendidly." He gave an exaggerated look around. "This room, on the other hand...”

“Hm. I said I was sorry!" 

She paused, forcing herself to adopt a more sober tone. "You realize that nothing has truly been resolved?”

William Conrad shook his head. “Of course not. I have presented the case for my chosen course – what happens next is up to you. But if we do end up on opposite sides of this game, be aware that I won't begrudge you your choice – I will simply be glad that you've chosen to play.”

[King Ghidorah]

An urgent pounding on the varnished door made both of them jump. A muffled voice called urgently from the hall outside:"Your Grace, is everything alright? We heard shouting, and there's broken glass in the courtyard!"

The Duke cleared his throat. "All is well. I am engaged in a conference with the lady Isolda, is all. You may return to your posts, guardsmen."

There came the sound of muffled discussion, and then quickly retreating footsteps. William Conrad returned his attention to his niece, facing her squarely in the middle of the room. "They're terrified of you, you know," he said. 

She nodded, wiping her face with a handkerchief produced from up her sleeve. Something her uncle had mentioned earlier was beginning to bother her. "I know. They're not entirely wrong, is the thing... what was that you said about a gala?"

The Duke bit his lip. He wished he hadn't mentioned the gala, but if Isolda was going to involve herself in these matters then she likely would have found out regardless. "A diplomatic event has been arranged at our country house, in two weeks time. Officially it's in honor of our new 'champion'. Of course, the true purpose is to provide a venue for our neighbors and associates to join in choreographing the public response to our impending annexation of the Shatterdun highlands. It will also serve as a coming-out party of sorts, although Ghidorah will have to be managed very carefully if there are to be no casualties. "

Isolda watched his face, her eyebrows raised expectantly. 

Her uncle continued, adding a small formal bow: "You are, naturally, welcome to attend."

*     *     *

It had been a long time since Isolda had sat on the slate-tiled roof of Castle Harnburg's Northwest tower - not since she'd begun to work on her garden. The rooftop had the advantage of being isolated and sturdy; It was nearly ten stories high, with nothing she could damage if she lost control of her passengers, and the view of the valley was amazing: perfect for escaping from the threat of other people. Unfortunately, it also lacked engaging distractions, and that made it a less-than-ideal place to go in order to escape from herself.

As the sun rose towards noon in the clear blue sky, the rooftop grew warmer. In a couple of hours the tiles would be unpleasantly hot, but right now they smelled damp, retaining some of their night-time chill; Isolda could feel their pleasant coolness through the fabric of her emerald dress.

A necromantic matrix of spectral power swirled around her; Dead faces twisted, smoky and half-visible in the mid-morning light, demanding a reason, a target, a purchase for their mummified anger - and found nothing but slowly warming stone.      

The heiress didn't want to go to the gala. There was a time, years ago, when she'd loved that sort of thing, the intrigue and energy, but she'd been a very different person then; since the founding of Harnburg Castle, Isolda had only attended her uncle's court functions out of a vague sense of obligation towards maintaining a certain minimum profile. She especially didn't want to go to this one because Ghidorah was going to be there, and one of her dearest wishes was to keep a healthy distance from the vicious golden Prime at all times.

A gust of wind whispered down the valley, billowing her hair across her bony shoulders in a futile attempt to dislodge her from her perch.  

Unfortunately, she didn't think she had any choice but to attend. Even if she were to attempt to retreat back into her garden, the looming shadow of what she was increasingly convinced was her uncle's greatest folly would be there, hovering in the back of her mind, every doubt echoed by the spirits she carried; she'd taken a step out of her comfortable shroud of isolation, and it would be almost as painful at this point to go back as to go forward.

To her multi-layered surprise, that made her furious. For Isolda, such jagged anger was dangerous - but also tremendously powerful. Usually she quashed it,  avoiding the subject until the emotion was manageable. This time, she forced it down into a disused emotional pocket, saving it for later.

If she went to the gala there was a very good chance she'd have to leave early for the safety of the other guests - but if she didn't go her ignorance (which had not only begun to rapidly lose its comfort-value but also become increasingly dangerous) would only increase. Besides, some of the ambassadors who attended her uncle's court couldn't see past their own intrigues. What if one of them accidentally angered the guest of honor? Excepting Mothra, and barring the sudden arrival of some mysterious heroic Prime (which was always a possibility, although a remote one) Isolda was the only person in the area with both the power and the will to stop Ghidorah - and she doubted that Mothra's arrival would be make anyone safer.

The wind changed direction, ruffling her dress and blowing her hair back in her face. It occurred to Isolda as she was clearing the unruly tangle out of her eyes that she was trying very hard to talk herself into going to this party. After all, Chatterly would certainly have contingencies in place to prevent Ghidorah from going rogue... 

... but she'd never liked Chatterly. He was certainly very good at what he did, but even so he thought far too highly of himself, and his ruthlessness was less than charming. 

"Bugger," she said.    

Beside her right elbow, two tiny voices gasped in unison, shocked at her language. Isolda was so surprised that she nearly lost her balance, half-scrambling on the slick tiles as she reached for a weapon that she no longer wore.

"We are sorry!" said Mothra's two miniature servants, bowing apologetically. The six-inch-high women were much cleaner than the last time Isolda had seen them. Their colorful dresses had clearly been washed, contrasting brilliantly with the slate and the sky, but their tiny hats were missing. "We did not mean to startle you!" 

The noblewoman stared. Typically, right about now she would be regretting having blown them both up by accident, but for some reason her ghosts seemed to be ignoring them. 

"That's... alright." Isolda said, recomposing herself with considerable effort. She pressed her hands together to keep them from shaking. "How did you get up here?" 

"We climbed,"explained the twin fairies. "It was very difficult! Have you spoken with your uncle?"

Isolda shook her head. "I'm afraid he's made up his mind. He's taking Mothra's interference in his affairs very personally. If she moves against Ghidorah in the open, I fear that next time your mistress will be walking into a trap."

Both fairies' faces fell. "That is terrible news! But.... thank you for your efforts on our behalf. And Mothra thanks you as well!" 

The tiny women bowed again. Isolda gave them a placating wave. "Please, don't. This is as much my problem as it is either of yours - or Mothra's. I'll do my part in solving it - but I should tell you, I won't see my uncle harmed, nor any of our serfs." She turned her gaze out across the valley's villages and hills, rolling up and away towards the forests in the East. "I'm firmly against Ghidorah - but although I've an odd fondness for you both, I'm on Harnburg's side, not yours." 

"As you wish. Regardless, we will speak to you again. Until then we wish you good fortune, Lady Isolda!" 

When the heiress looked back, the tiny women were gone. Her eyes narrowed. 

Good fortune or no, this was going to involve a lot more than luck.

[King Ghidorah]

Isolda stayed on the roof until just before noon, well after the tiles had grown uncomfortably hot. She was trying to develop a plan, something more sophisticated than simply 'show up to the gala and keep an eye on Ghidorah', but she  had already extended herself further in one morning than in the past three months combined, and her emotional energy was largely tapped out. 

Subtly but certainly, her carefully tended solitude was coming undone, its foundations undermined by their very nature. Turning away from the situation would mean retreating even further from the world than she had before, and that wasn't something Isolda thought she could survive - but that still didn't make taking action any easier after so much time spent blissfully at rest; Following the confrontation with her uncle  and the second unexpected meeting with Mothra's twin messengers, the heiress simply didn't have enough mental fortitude left to both keep her phantom tenants quiet and continue dealing with serious matters today. 

Besides, Uncle William had always been the one who made the plans; Even leaving everything else aside, that simple fact made Isolda feel as though her head was filled with bees. 

She needed some time to rest. 

*     *     *

Although she had the entire Northwest tower of the keep to herself, Isolda's apartments were less opulent than the Duke's. 

There was no gold trim to be found, no lush burgundy carpets or liveried guards; In every room and hall the floors and walls were lacquered oak - tiles and paneling, molding and doors, lit by the flickering golden radiance of glass-hooded oil-lamps mounted in black iron fixtures. There were no windows. Other than the lamps, the only decorations were the occasional painting, with a slight preference for still-lifes over portraiture and landscape, rendered in acrylics and framed in bronze. In every image, without exception, the star-spangled sky was purple and lit by a sun with a bruised black halo. Walking the tower's vacant halls and disused chambers, a one got the impression that they had somehow become trapped within the veins of a massive, petrified tree. Everything smelled like varnish.

The only exception to the theme was Isolda's bedchamber; There, the walls were papered in white lace overlaid with alternating patterns of green ivy and tiny crimson owls, and exotic green rugs were piled on the floor.  A large wardrobe occupied one corner, and beside it was a chest of drawers, both constructed of solid sea-green jade. A silk sofa embroidered with emerald thread commanded the middle of the room, and a single, narrow bay window, complete with a love-seat bedecked with embroidered green cushions overlooked the Northernmost corner of the valley. One entire wall was given over to an oaken  bookcase, which was full to bursting with everything from leather grimoires of dubious provenance to trashy paperback romance-novels (a taste she'd acquired in Costa del Sol, shortly after arriving in the Omniverse). The clashing scents of sea-salt, old paper and lilac perfume intertwined to form a uniquely relaxing miasma, a smell that the room's creator had carried in her mind from another time and place.

There was no bed, and no source of light besides the rays of  the afternoon sun streaming in the through the window. Isolda had gotten rid of the former shortly after summoning the Northwest tower: she didn't sleep very often, and when she did, she found that building a nest out of pillows on the sofa worked best. 

If she wanted a lamp, her attendants could get one for her. 

The pretty-but-forgettable women who made up her entourage weren't exactly human: they were empty vessels - soul-less summoned bodies that some of Isolda's more tractable ghostly passengers could be persuaded to inhabit in order to perform complex tasks, and to maintain appearances when she was moving about the castle unshrouded. 

Right now, seated on the sofa with her hands folded in her lap, Isolda had two of them brushing and braiding her hair - one standing behind her, the other seated at her side.

Aside from the fact that she enjoyed looking nice, it was a relaxing ritual for a number of reasons: It gave the ghosts something to do, it took some of the pressure off of the heiress's  mind, and it reminded her of  happier times, before she became a walking necropolis.  Unfortunately, today it wasn't working. For whatever reason, for the first time since coming to the Omniverse, it bothered Isolda that her handmaidens weren't real. 

"Do you remember who you were?" She asked. It was an unusual interruption - typically, the entire tonsorial procedure happened within a comfortable bubble of silence, save for the whispering of fingers, flax and hair - but it was something she'd wondered for some time. Her handmaidens had never shown more than the vaguest hint of personality,  but possessing these blank slates was the only time the spirits acted as distinct individuals. 

Both handmaidens chorused, "No, milady." and continued with their task. Isolda's eyelids drooped, and a frown tugged at the corner of her mouth. Then the one standing behind her added calmly, "Not specifically. But we are very angry."

The other nodded. "Toweringly angry. Some more than others." 

The noblewoman started to nod, then caught herself. "I've always wondered about that. I know that my brothers are among your number, and probably my father. I would expect them to feel different, though I knew them hardly at all... But the feedback I get from some of you has an edge to it that the others lack. Like there's some additional outrage, some extra source of anger beyond the obvious."

For a moment, the room seemed colder. Isolda got the uncomfortable feeling she had said something wrong.

"That," said the one at her back, looking at its partner with blunt disapproval as it tied off a braid, "Is not something we are willing to discuss." 

Her handmaidens finished their task in silence, and though the heiress attempted to engage them several more times, in the end they retreated down the hall to their annex and vacated their vessels without saying another word. The dull, distant double-thump of two bodies hitting the floor bespoke an unusual lack of care. 

Isolda stared at her wardrobe, and deliberately thought about nothing. It was a copy of a piece of furniture she'd owned when she was thirteen; She didn't know what had happened to the original, and she'd always found that oddly comforting. After years of idleness there were suddenly things she needed to do, and too much potential for catastrophe if she simply didn't do them - but with the morning Isolda had had, it felt good to  just sit still. 

Ghostly fingers ruffled the carpets, and pillows began to float about the room. Before she knew it, she had drifted into a fitful sleep.