The lights dimmed. It must be late.

Nails bitten down to the quick, dark circles underneath her eyes. In one hand she held a book with its pages decorated in cursive writing-- or squiggles, to the illiterate --and the other was lifted to her chin as she worked on biting the nail of her thumb.

It'd been hours. She hadn't left the Palace since she woke up and she was beginning to miss even the taste of the "fresh" air found around the Nest. Her shoes had been kicked off long ago, but the relief of cool stone against her brought some strange comfort.

Her eyes were starting to glaze over. She was hoping one of these books-- most were fictional, it turned out --would spark her memory a little. So far, nothing bar what she already knew. She remembered the sky, the smoke in a wooden cabin. She knew that little cat, with no gemstone, who never spoke, but not his name. She remembered a woman and perfume hanging in the air.

Their names? No, that'd makes things just a little too clearer for her.

Bastard.

At last, the Valkhand collapsed on a fainting couch, book falling shut. Her arm planted over her face and she exhaled all the air from her lungs.

She definitely wouldn't be sleeping tonight, no matter how tired she was.

Had she drifted? Aethril hadn't noticed Obieth coming closer, she hadn't heard her, until the Valkhound's head was under her fingers. Even then, at first, she mistook her for Eggbert until she noticed the hard ridges and finally picked up on Obieth's voice. She shifted, then, pulling her arm away from her face and looking over.

"No," the Hand's voice was soft, and her blunt nails went raking into the back of Obieth's skull, where her head met her neck. There was some comfort in this-- at least for Aethril. The Valkhound wasn't as cuddly as she remembered other cats being, but even the mere act of just petting her was enough to satisfy that little urge. "No, not all night."

Just most of it, perhaps.

Aethril sat up again, spare hand rubbing at her eyes. A part of her wanted to confide in Obieth-- she just wanted to tell someone, anyone what it was like. In some ways, she was scared of what she couldn't remember, but was that something Obieth would even understand? If she told Obieth how many books she'd trawled for looking for answers for questions Aethril barely even knew she were asking, would Obieth... sympathize? More importantly-- was it worth it?

No. The Valkhand had to move on. She knew this.

She was picking up the book dumped near Obieth's paws as she straightened herself out on the couch and folded one leg over the other. "Do you enjoy your time around the Palace?" Aethril asked, more out of placid politeness than a genuine interest. She could only imagine Obieth terrorizing the ivory mice scuttling away from her and into the walls day in and day out. "I hope there is enough for you to do, for entertainment."

The Hand hummed a little. Obieth would run out of episodes soon enough-- Pollen already had and was plotting on scalping Danger into making more --but at least this Valkhound seemed to appreciate smaller details. Obieth wouldn't get bored on re-runs, as long as there was enough for her to notice on a second or third viewing.

But, was Aethril entertained? Was there enough? "It can be stifling, sometimes," she admitted. "There is plenty to do, of course, but I do find myself craving... more." Not more, perhaps, but the elf was quickly reminiscing.

Obieth would love the skies. Did she even have the slightest concept of fresher air, of an infinite sky? "There is much more out there than this Nest," she said softly, tone edged with something resembling grief. "So much more. It's not healthy to linger, however." Thinking about being trapped wasn't going to make Aethril feel any less trapped.

She was moving onto a new idea, craning her head back to look at the bookshelves. "I should take more time to read, perhaps. It's what they're there for. In fact," she was pushing up, bringing the book in her hand with her. "Would you like to listen to a story?"

A hand beckoned Obieth with her as she strode to the bookshelves, almost gliding through the air without her feet touching marble. "They're always good before turning in for the night," she explained. "And some have pictures in them, like the show does."

Aethril was picking through the spines of books, nail brushing through embroidery. She knew many of these stories-- they were for the younger, with more pictures than words. This one about a fish giving away all its scales, one of sailors looking for treasure. One she particularly liked was the story of a man who avenges his brother's death by killing a bear, but in turn is killed for it. The last time she read it, however, she had cried so hard she threw up. Not the impression she wanted to leave on Obieth.

"Everywhere you can walk is the Nest," she said, looking over. "This Nest is the cave system-- you won't be able to leave it. The Palace, Draco, everything beyond-- it's all part of the same one. Beyond that is where I come from. Where I was born." The Hand plucked one book from the shelf, a sort of dusty green with gold threading. "I don't remember much of it, mind you-- but the trees changed with the seasons. They'd be full and green in the summer, brown and gold in the fall. In winter, they'd lose it all-- and by spring, they'd reform. They'd grow pink petals that would fill the roads."

A pause. "It's... difficult to explain the appeal, I suppose. Perhaps we all just have nostalgia for the places we were born in." Aethril was pulling a cushion down onto the floor from one of the couches, now, and took a seat on it, opening the book. "Speaking of, however, perhaps we could take a look around the caves, if you'd like. I believe Pollen wants to go near Usra to try to find Rodd Danger."

Her only concern about that was that he'd be terrible to her. She set the open book down on the marble floor for Obieth to get a look at-- to look at the thin pages, the smell of Book, the faint tang of ink. The current page it was turned to had nothing special on it aside from some black squiggles on the very face.

"This story is about something called the Moon."

"There's no way out," she answered. "Not that I can remember, at least." And this wasn't to imply that the list of things Aethril could remember was particularly long. "And no, not magic-- the world outside the Nest doesn't have much magic in it. They just do it."

She turned the page and she was considering. "He's likely quieter in real life," she offered. "But you don't have to meet Rodd Loud Noises if you don't want to. It's Pollen's thing." The next pages were awash with colours; faded dark blues and whites decorated them. They showed an infinite sky, dotted with small, glittering stars. A woman with very long white hair sat underneath the sky in a garden of pale star-shaped flowers surrounding her. A crescent moon was planted in the sky right above her head, though it was distinctly grey in comparison to the iridescent colours.

"The Moon," and she pointed to the grey shape, "is a sort of light. Outside of the caves, it lights up everything so that we can see. The Sun does the same during the day-- but neither of those are very important to the story."

The Hand settled, and then she began.

"Once upon a time, the Moon was dark and gloomy. No one liked to look at her, and because of this, it made her very sad. The only things that would look upon her face were the stars, and she told them, 'I do not like being the Moon. I wish I were a flower, where women would praise me and put me in their hair. I wish I were a flower that the birds would sing their sweet songs to.'

The Stars said, 'We do not know how we can help you. We live always in one place and performed our duties to make the night sky beautiful and bright.' They smiled at the Moon, and the Moon had an idea." The page turned.

The Moon-- or more accurately, the nice lady --was walking away from the flowers that surrounded her. Wisps of fireflies followed her in long, delicate strokes of orange. Above her, the crescent moon was gone-- but the sky was blended between dark blue and pink-orange as she strode off to brighter territory. "The Moon decided that she would help the Stars light up the sky-- so she travelled across the skies to find someone who could help her shine brighter. She had to find the Sun."