On the Ethics of Creating and Powering a Soul Engine

Five

Fear did not become Anxe.

They shot awake, breathing quickened. Their heart beat in swift, cut time, and sharp staccato notes.

We were there. We were watching. At the edge of Anxe's vision. At the edge of their psychic perception. We were in the room with them.

There should have been only one other soul in the manor.

We felt their thoughts:

Why was there another?

Why is it here, but not here?

Why is it so old?

Anxe, dressed only in a gossamer nightgown, slipped out of the bed they had commandeered. Lothar was absent; it seemed unfair that elves didn't require sleep. Floorboards lightly groaned under the weight of Anxe's lithe frame. They did not require light. The only sound was the creak for wood and the drumming of Anxe's heart.

Anxe was not called to fear.

We flickered, hiding in the space between Anxe's palpitations. Anxe could sense the way we moved, but never an exact location. As soon as Anxe would look in a corner of the room, it was as if the shadows covered up even the concept of our being.

"Who are you?" Anxe's voice was a whisper. It was a shaking, thin thing that was more breath than speech.

We leaned into their ear, our slick teeth shimmering iridescent in Anxe's mind. Our mechanisms churned, grinding out a single word.

Truth

Anxe shot awake, breathing quickened. Their heart beat in swift, cut time, and sharp staccato notes.

When did?

Why did?

Anxe was not permitted to fear.

They leaped out of the bed and became aware of a presence.

Immediately, Anxe sent a wicked blade of vibration in its direction. They heard flesh tear and a cry of pain. And elvish curses.

Lothar had fallen to the floor. Blood poured from his forearm, a defensive wound that cut nearly to the bone. "Damn you, Anxe!" Lothar spat angrily.

Anxe stumbled back against the nightstand. "Lothar! I'm sorry, I was sca-," they began to voice that thought. That foul, beautiful thing. But it held back Anxe's tongue.

Anxe was not capable of fear.

Fear did not become Anxe.

"I was just a little startled by you, darling." A lie. "I am sorry."

Lothar scowled at the bard and at his own injury. A pause. "It's fine." A lie.

He went to dress the wound. Anxe went to attend to him, to offer their assistance. But the cold eyes they found held the response. Anxe could feel themself going pale, a remarkable feat.

"Lothar, darling, I-"

His fair lips curled into a snarl. He growled in a quiet tone. "We share the same master, and nothing more." A lie.

He left.

Anxe did not sleep the remainder of the night. We did not leave. We watched them till dawn, and they knew. And we were glad.