Rubel
Legacy Name: Rubel

The temple of the Crawling Chaos stood very near the northern pole of the Dreamlands, in a place called Sarkomand on the frigid Plateau of Leng. Beyond this plateau lay nothing but the dwelling of Nyarlathotep himself: an enormous palace of black crystal he had named Kadath. The Dreamlands' sun never shone there, and the temperature always hovered below freezing, making Sarkomand quite inhospitable to flora—even the flora of dreams.

Therefore, Nyarlathotep's High Priest Not to Be Described (a.k.a. the King in Yellow to his own followers and Hastur to anyone who dared call him by name) was greatly surprised to find a flower among the offerings left on the temple's altar.

Nyarlathotep's worshipers had not brought the offerings directly; instead, they had been collected from around the Dreamlands by certain servants of the Crawling Chaos, who were a toad-like species able to withstand the harsh climate of Sarkomand. Most of the haul consisted of the usual stuff: money for which Nyarlathotep had no need; jewels for which he also had no need but which pleased him nevertheless because they were shiny; and sacrificial remains already frozen solid.

Nyarlathotep didn't technically need these either, but they pleased him most of all because he enjoyed sacrifices. Sacrifices meant true, fanatical, eternal devotion, something to gloat about to the other Outer Gods. Not that the other gods particularly cared, some of them even lacking the sanity to process anything communicated to them, but that never stopped Nyarlathotep from gloating.

Impostor syndrome, Hastur sometimes thought. That sounded less judgmental than “daddy issues,” which were understandable nevertheless. The gibbering supreme deity Azathoth (a.k.a. the Blind Idiot God, the Nuclear Chaos, etc., etc.) had sired Nyarlathotep for the sole purpose of having a relatively sane mouthpiece and errand boy, and none of the other deities ever let him forget it.

Hastur secretly pitied Nyarlathotep, which would have infuriated the latter had he known it. Therefore, despite being king of his own domain of Carcosa, Hastur served as High Priest of Sarkomand because it gave him a reason to provide companionship to the Crawling Chaos, whose whims and tantrums no one else would tolerate for very long.

He's been in such a snit lately. Maybe there will be more “whim” and less “tantrum” today if he's pleased with these, Hastur hoped as he swept the valuables and icy bones into a basket with one pale, exceedingly long-fingered hand emerging from the sleeve of the yellow robes he wore. He held the basket not with his other hand but with a tentacle poking out of another fold in the saffron velvet.

Yet as capricious and unpredictable as Nyarlathotep could be, there was no telling how he'd react to the offerings. . . especially the flower, since he'd never received one before. Hastur didn't care much for flowers himself, although he made sure plenty grew in Carcosa since his adopted daughters, Cassilda and Camilla, both adored them. For all he knew, Nyarlathotep might hate plants.

Maybe I shouldn't even bring it to him, the priest mused, picking up the pot containing the single blossom. He held it up in front of his impassive, mask-like face and studied it. It was pretty enough, a pansy with soft petals of muted crimson and yellow, but it was small. Even if Nyarlathotep did like flowers, he might consider this one to be unworthy of him.

“Where in the omniverse did you come from, anyway?” Hastur muttered as he turned the pot this way and that in his spindly hand to examine it from all angles.

“Ooth-Nargai,” said the flower.

Hastur nearly dropped the pot.

Sentient flora were not unheard of in the Dreamlands, but Hastur hadn't realized that this little flower was among them; he'd only been talking to himself rhetorically, not expecting a reply. Yet the flower suddenly opened two expressive eyes the same crimson color as her petals and blinked up at him. She lacked a mouth to have spoken from, but then, so did Hastur and he thought little of it.

“Ooth-Nargai?” he repeated. “That's. . . surprising.”

“Why?” The flower cocked her blossom to one side, like a curious child would tilt her head. Hastur had again been talking to himself—a habit he'd picked up at some point over the eons he'd been in existence, most of them spent alone—and fumbled for an explanation a sapient flower could understand.

“Someone left you as an offer—a present for Nyarlathotep,” Hastur told her, thinking that “offering” sounded a little too close to “sacrifice.” Which she'll end up being before long, he thought regretfully. It's far too cold here for a flower to survive!

She blinked again. “Who's Nyar. . . Nyarlak. . . .”

“Nyarlathotep, the Crawling Chaos,” replied Hastur. “He's a deity—a god. And he doesn't like the ruler of Ooth-Nargai very much—”

“Oh, King Kuranes?” the flower interrupted, her eyes brightening a little. “But he's very kind, and a very good king! Why doesn't Nyar—Nyarly like him?”

Although he didn't technically need to breathe, Hastur took a deep breath anyway before replying, “Never mind, it's not important. I'm just surprised that anyone from Ooth-Nargai would want to. . . give Nyarlathotep a present, that's all.” Telling her that was far simpler than trying to explain why Nyarlathotep hated Kuranes enough to attempt once to wipe him and his kingdom out of Existence.

She'd never be able to understand why a nigh-omnipotent eldritch deity like Nyarlathotep is so jealous of mere mortals and the power of their dreams, thought Hastur. He didn't truly understand it himself, for he generally found charming those humans who meant well, like Kuranes who had constructed in the Dreamlands the lovely country of Ooth-Nargai, its capital Celephaïs, and the beautiful city of Serannian, an island which floated among the clouds where the Cerenarian Sea met the sky.

In fact, Hastur's Cassilda and Camilla were such humans, twin sisters who as children had learned to escape their bleak, painful lives in the waking world by venturing through the Dreamlands as they slept. Whereas Nyarlathotep would have harbored bitter envy of their innocent sweet dreams, Hastur admired the girls for their ability to enter the Dreamlands at will though they were only mortals. When he grew to love them as their human father never had, he offered to adopt them as his own daughters and make them the princesses of Carcosa so they could live forever in the realm of dreams and never return to the horrors of reality.

Nyarlathotep had laughed at Hastur and mocked him for his sentimentality, yet Hastur let him laugh.

To love and to be loved in return, to be part of a family. . . that's something I thought our kind could never have, Hastur mused as he looked down at the flower whose pot he cradled in his hand. But I have gained it, because of humans and their dreams, the very things Nyarlathotep hates most.

He can't comprehend love any more than this little one can comprehend hatred. If only someone could show love for him despite what he is—the way Cassilda and Camilla love me despite what I am. . . maybe he could understand it.

With that in mind, Hastur asked the flower, “Do you know who might have wanted to give you to him?”

She shook her blossom from side to side and said, “No. I used to grow in a nice big garden with lots of other flowers. But one evening, I went to sleep when the sun went down, and when I woke up, I'd been. . . potted.” She drooped a bit and sighed. “I don't even know how I got here. Or where 'here' is.”

“'Here' is Sarkomand,” Hastur explained. “It's one of Nyarlathotep's temples. One of his servants must have collected you with the other—er, presents and brought you here so I can take you to him.”

He tucked the flower's little pot into his basket amid the other offerings. She glanced around at them, giving the bones a rather dismayed look, then lifted her eyes a long way up to look at Hastur again.

“Why do you bring Nyarly presents?” she asked. “Are you his friend?”

“No, I am Hastur, his High Priest,” Hastur told her. “All kinds of beings give him presents because he's a god, and I bring them to him because that's my job as his priest.”

“Oh,” said the flower. “Your name's Hastur? Mine's Rubel! And that's too bad.”

Hastur was on his way out the door of the temple, and he asked absently, “Pardon? What's too bad?”

“It's too bad that—oh my goodness!” Rubel gave a yelp and huddled down into her pot as Hastur stepped outside into the cold wind whipping across the plateau. “I-it's so cold!”

“It is, isn't it,” muttered Hastur, thinking again of how the little flower would soon be no more than a little icicle. He would have frowned had he possessed a mouth to do it with. After a moment's consideration, he tried layering a fold of his sleeve over the top of the open basket to provide some shelter from the wind. “Is that better?”

“Um, a little—well. . . no. Not really,” came the muffled reply.

Hastur stifled what would have been a purely rhetorical sigh, plucked the pot from the basket, and tucked it and its occupant into the hood he wore over his head, nestling it between his bony shoulder and spindly, sinewy neck.

“Better?” he prompted.

“Oh! Yes, that's much better, thank you!” chirped Rubel as she snuggled up to his neck. Hastur managed not to flinch, although it felt exceedingly odd to be touched there—or at all. Most mortal beings were so terrified of him, they could scarcely look straight at him, much less touch him. And though they did embrace him frequently, even Hastur's daughters had little contact with his pale bare skin save for the occasional touch of his hand.

Yet Rubel didn't seem the least bit afraid, pressing her petals against Hastur's neck as he trudged through the snow out into the open space of the plateau beyond the temple. She even continued their conversation by chattering, “Anyway! I was saying that it's too bad that Nyarly only gets presents because he's a god. Doesn't anyone ever give him things just because they like him?”

“No, because no one likes Nyarlathotep,” Hastur said dryly.

“Why not?”

This time Hastur didn't bother stifling the sigh. “You'll find out soon enough. Nyarlathotep is. . . difficult.”

“But don't you like him, if you're his priest and all?” Rubel persisted. “Maybe not enough to give him presents yourself, but at least a little? If you don't, then why don't you quit and find another job?”

“I have 'another job,'” Hastur grumbled. “But if I quit, then Nyarlathotep wouldn't have a High Priest anymore because he'd drive anyone else insane—figuratively, literally, or both. And someone's got to keep an eye on him. Without me, no one would come to see him at all.”

Rubel asked, “You mean he'd be lonely?”

Hastur hesitated but then said with a shrug of his unoccupied shoulder, “Yes. And bored.”

“Well! If you didn't like him, you wouldn't care if he's lonely and bored, now would you?” the flower declared in a triumphant tone.

“I only care because he'd probably destroy half the omniverse just for something to do!” retorted Hastur, although he sounded awfully defensive even to himself. “Now stop asking questions, and stay still! To reach Kadath, Nyarlathotep's castle, I'll have to fly the rest of the way, and you might fall out of my hood if you move around too much.”

Rubel made a nervous sound and grabbed hold of Hastur's neck with her leaves. He felt slightly guilty for alarming her, but at least she'd quit talking.

He extended from his back a pair of bat-like wings normally hidden within the folds of his robe, and launched himself into the air to glide towards distant Kadath. None of the Dreamlands' other winged denizens, nor even its grandest airships, could have reached Kadath by air; anyone approaching without Nyarlathotep's consent would have fallen right out of the sky.

In contrast, Hastur had no difficulty aside from the minor annoyance of the cold wind blowing in what passed for his face, and he was soon landing on a little balcony at the pinnacle of the black palace. Its true purpose was to provide Nyarlathotep with somewhere to stand and preen as he surveyed his icy domain, but Hastur found it the most convenient entrance to the Crawling Chaos's throne room—the latter being located on the castle's upper-most floor. Since he had a mass of tentacles beneath his robes instead of legs, Hastur was not fond of stairs.

Nyarlathotep wasn't out surveying and preening, so Hastur folded up his wings, pushed open the balcony's intricately etched crystal door, and entered the throne room. It was only marginally warmer inside, and he felt Rubel give a little shiver against his neck, but at least the black walls kept out the wind.

The throne room seemed impossibly large on the inside, with a ceiling so high that darkness obscured it. The floor of black and white marble slabs arranged in a zigzag pattern appeared to stretch infinitely out before Hastur, and the only object in the entire room was the throne itself: a big ebony affair carved with grotesque figures. Those figures depicted various avatars of Nyarlathotep, who could take any appearance he wished.

Hastur, whose own throne in Carcosa was not decorated with fetishes of himself, found it to be rather gauche, but then Nyarlathotep had never been the paragon of good taste.

He looked pleasing enough at the moment, though. The Crawling Chaos was sprawled sideways on the throne in the form of a human man—more or less. His limbs were just a bit too elongated and his features a little too sharp to be quite right, but he looked human enough to pass.

For someone with such a grudge towards human beings, Nyarlathotep was oddly fond of this form, and he often appeared in it: a tall, slender, brown-skinned young man with a lovely face, black chin-length hair, and eyes that sparkled like a night sky full of stars. He was dressed like an ancient pharaoh, yet the fabric of his robe seemed at once to be both white and full of iridescent color, and the golden double-crown on his head glowed with an unnatural light.

Nyarlathotep's long legs were draped over one arm of the throne with his back against the other, chin resting in his hand and a bored expression on his face, until he noticed Hastur. For the briefest instant, his expression brightened, but then Nyarlathotep regulated it into a sulky glare instead as he turned to sit up on his throne the proper way with a huff.

“You're late!” he snapped. “What kept you?”

Rubel whispered from within Hastur's hood, “Wow, is that Nyarly? He's so pretty!”

Ignoring both their questions, Hastur swept forward and held out the basket of offerings he carried in one tentacle. When Nyarlathotep, still sulking, refused to take it, Hastur dropped it in his lap with a terse, “Here.”

“Hmph.” Nyarlathotep poked through the basket's contents with a hand whose long fingers bore several rings, then sighed, “Just the usual offerings, how boring,” as he set the basket aside on the floor next to his throne. Since he didn't act interested in even the shiniest of the jewels, Hastur realized that contrary to his hopes, Nyarlathotep was closer to “tantrum” than “whim” today.

Thus, Hastur decided that he shouldn't hand over Rubel after all. A better course of action would be to take her home with him to Carcosa as a gift for his daughters. . . .

. . . A plan which was foiled when Rubel suddenly piped up from his shoulder, “What about me?”

Nyarlathotep's head shot up, and he squinted at Hastur suspiciously to ask, “What about whom? Is someone with you, or did you just randomly decide to change your voice to sound like a little girl?”

Resigning Rubel to her fate as an ice cube, Hastur reached into his hood and pulled out the flower pot. “This is why I was delayed—someone left this flower from Ooth-Nargai as an offering, and we were discussing who would do such a thing.”

He extended his hand to hold out Rubel to Nyarlathotep, as he had the other offerings.

“Hunh. Talking flower. That's different.” The Crawling Chaos fixed his glittering dark eyes on Rubel. “It's from Ooth-Nargai? Who did leave it?”

Before Hastur could respond, Rubel corrected timidly, “Um, excuse me. . . I'm a she, not an it. But yes I'm from Ooth-Nargai, and no I don't know who left me as your. . . offering.” Her petals drooped a bit, and she cast a brief, accusing glance up at the High Priest Not to Be Described. “Hastur didn't tell me I was an offering. He said I was a present.”

“Hmph, offering, present. . . what's the difference?” asked Nyarlathotep as he suddenly lurched forward and snatched the pot out of Hastur's hand. He held Rubel up close to his face and sniffed her. Hastur assumed that a sentient flower would find that rude, but although her eyes widened with apprehension, Rubel didn't complain.

Nyarlathotep drew back and observed with a frown, “You don't smell like much of anything.”

“N-not all pansies have a scent, Nyarly!” Rubel stammered. “Just yellow ones and blue ones, mostly.”

Nyarlathotep didn't seem to hear the second sentence, because he was too busy spluttering, “'Nyarly'?!” He flicked his eyes up to glare at Hastur as he demanded, “Did you tell her to call me that?”

It was likely for the best that Hastur lacked a mouth, because he wouldn't have been able to hide a smirk as he replied, “No, but she can't pronounce 'Nyarlathotep.' And anyway, you already have a thousand other names, as you often remind everyone, so what's one more?”

Nyarlathotep made another huffing sound and asked, “What am I supposed to do with her, anyway?”

Hastur lifted both hands and three tentacles in a shrug. “How should I know? I just found her on the altar with the other offerings, and it's not like she came with an instruction manual.”

Neither of them thought of asking the flower herself until Rubel said in a small voice, “Um, you could talk to me? Hastur said you get lonely and bored when he's not here.”

Nyarlathotep started spluttering all over again: “I do not! Bored, maybe, but I'm no less bored when he is here, dull as he is. And as for lonely—!” He broke off and snarled up at Hastur instead of Rubel, “What makes you think I'd ever feel such a pathetic emotion? Just because you turned into such a sap after your daughters came along, that doesn't mean I need anybody! I never get lonely—especially not for you!”

“I never said you did!” retorted Hastur. “Rubel misunderstood what I—”

“No I didn't!” she piped up. “You said if you quit being Nyarly's High Priest, nobody else would want to do it—”

“He said what—”

Rubel kept talking over Nyarlathotep's outburst: “—And so nobody would ever come to see him, and I asked if he'd be lonely, and you said yes!”

“That's not the same thing as—oh, never mind,” Hastur groaned, then grumbled at Nyarlathotep, “Anyhow, if you don't want the flower, I'll take her to Cassilda and Camilla.”

He reached out to retrieve Rubel's pot, but Nyarlathotep snatched it away and held her to his chest as he snapped, “You will not! She was an offering to me, not those spoiled princesses of yours!”

Even the patience of eternal beings has its limits, and Hastur reached them when Nyarlathotep insulted his daughters. He was used to the Crawling Chaos insulting him—“dull” was hardly the worst thing he'd ever called Hastur—and it hadn't surprised him to hear Nyarlathotep say, essentially, that he wouldn't care if Hastur left and never came back. (Nor had it bothered him. . . not much, anyway. He was reasonably sure that Nyarlathotep didn't actually mean it, and besides, eternal beings might run out of patience, but they didn't get their feelings hurt.) (Not much, anyway.)

Yet Hastur had had enough after Nyarlathotep disrespected Cassilda and Camilla. He drew himself up to his full height in affront and snarled, “As if you—the most spoiled entity in the entire omniverse—aren't just going to let her freeze because you can't be bothered to care for anyone but yourself!”

Nyarlathotep glowered up at Hastur and opened his mouth, but Rubel spoke first with a whimpered, “L-let me freeze? Is that what being an offering means?”

“You keep out of this!” Nyarlathotep muttered at her before growling at Hastur, “And as for you—you can just go back to your precious Carcosa right now, without anything that belongs to me!”

Hastur hesitated, not for Nyarlathotep's sake but for Rubel's. Nyarlathotep clearly saw her as his property, not an autonomous sentient being, and Hastur knew that he would lose interest in her soon enough. He always did when something wasn't new and, as Nyarlathotep had put it, “different” to him anymore.

Just like I quit being new and different to him a long time ago, Hastur thought as he gazed down at Rubel and she looked back with her crimson eyes wide and frightened. Except I don't need him to care about me in order to survive. . . and she does.

But there was nothing he could do about it, especially when Nyarlathotep, further annoyed that he hadn't been instantly obeyed, yelled, “Get lost, Hastur!” Spoiled or not, the Crawling Chaos was among the most powerful beings in the omniverse, and even the King in Yellow was no match for him.

Thus Hastur dared not cross Nyarlathotep further, and he had no choice but to obey. He turned away to storm out of the throne room, slamming the lovely crystal door closed behind him.

Hastur did not return to Kadath for some time. For one thing, he had no desire to see Nyarlathotep again after the whole Rubel debacle. However, he had even less desire to find out what horrible fate had befallen Rubel herself. Freezing to death had to be the best-case scenario.

Yet eventually, Hastur had to go back, if only because his daughters started nagging him that wasn't he remiss in collecting the latest offerings to the Crawling Chaos, and shouldn't he go make sure everything was in order in the temple at Sarkomand, and couldn't Nyarlathotep be causing all kinds of trouble while Hastur was lingering in Carcosa rather than performing his priestly duties at Kadath?

Hastur wasn't sure why they were so concerned. He hadn't told Cassilda and Camilla about the fiasco of his last visit to Kadath, and they had never before seemed to care much about his role of High Priest Not to Be Described. Yet they kept after him about it now, to the point where he started to feel guilty of neglect in spite of himself. . . and to realize that he did want to see Nyarlathotep again after all.

Thus, he finally returned to Sarkomand, where he found upon the altar a pile of offerings which had built up in his absence—all just the usual stuff this time, with no talking flowers among it. Hastur gathered the offerings up and made his way through the air to Kadath in silence.

Yet as he approached the black tower of the crystal castle, Hastur saw that not everything was as usual: the balcony upon which he normally landed was no longer there. Or rather, it was there, but it wasn't a balcony anymore, for it was now completely walled in. Hastur wondered if Nyarlathotep had done so just to make access more difficult for him, but as he drew nearer, he realized that the outer walls were actually enormous windows, etched with the same intricate designs once gracing the balcony door.

When he landed on the roof of the annex, Hastur found that it too was made of clear crystal. Peering down through it into the room below, he could see a single piece of furniture in the center. It seemed to be a plant stand, for on it sat a flower pot. . . containing a small, crimson and yellow pansy.

Amazed, Hastur tapped on the crystal pane, and Rubel tilted her blossom up in surprise. Her eyes widened, then she waved her leaves back and forth at him. She must have called for Nyarlathotep as well, for in a moment he walked in and looked up too. He looked even more startled than Rubel, but then he made an impatient gesture beckoning Hastur downwards.

Hastur generally preferred using doors, but in lieu of one, he phased through the roof and landed with a thud on the floor in front of Nyarlathotep and Rubel. As he handed over the latest basket of offerings—at which Nyarlathotep hardly glanced before dropping it—Hastur noticed that despite the perpetual twilight which hung over Kadath and the entire plateau of Leng, what appeared to be sunlight streamed in through the windows and warmed the small room.

“Hi Hastur!” Rubel cried cheerfully.

He nodded at her then asked Nyarlathotep, “You. . . built her a greenhouse?”

Nyarlathotep looked askance and muttered, “Well it's not like it took any effort—all I had to do was think a greenhouse into existence.”

“Complete with an invisible sun,” observed Hastur. “Most impressive.”

“I'll thank you not to be sarcastic,” snapped Nyarlathotep. “There's no point in a greenhouse without any sunlight, now is there? I had to do something. Where have you been, anyway? You're really late this time.”

Hastur almost replied that he'd been in “his precious Carcosa,” exactly where Nyarlathotep had told him to go, but then he decided he'd rather not get in another fight.

Nevertheless, he couldn't help asking, “Since you find the offerings so boring, why does it matter how late I am?”

Rubel piped up, “Because Nyarly missed you!”

Hastur was further amazed that Nyarlathotep did not deny it, instead only pointing at Rubel and saying testily, “She missed you! You being late matters because that flower has been pestering me to no end, asking when you're coming back!”

“I see.” Hastur turned to address Rubel. “In that case, I'm sorry I was gone so long.”

She replied, “It's okay! I'm sure you were really busy being a king and a dad and stuff.” Hastur didn't recall talking about either of those things with Rubel, and she explained when she added, “Nyarly told me all about you!”

“I see,” repeated Hastur, then said to Nyarlathotep, “So you did decide to talk to her.”

“And I didn't let her freeze either,” the latter retorted facetiously before ordering, “Now come with me. I have something to say to you.” Nyarlathotep turned on his heel and stalked out of the greenhouse into his throne room. Hastur followed with a sense of foreboding, leaving Rubel to bask in the source-less sunlight.

Nyarlathotep stood with his arms folded and his back to Hastur, not speaking until the latter prompted, “Well?”

Even then, Nyarlathotep hesitated a few more seconds before muttering, “Hastur, I. . . apologize.”

Hastur was literally stunned speechless for an instant; then he asked, “You what?”

“You heard me,” grumbled the Crawling Chaos.

“Is this one of your schemes?” Hastur questioned suspiciously. “You've never apologized for anything before in your entire existence. And you're taking care of Rubel. . . you're being nice.”

Nyarlathotep finally turned to face him, hands now on his hips as he retorted, “I am not. I'm taking care of that little weed because she amuses me, that's all. And the only reason I'm apologizing is because she really wouldn't shut up about you, so I had to keep thinking about you—” He said the words with a wrinkle of his elegant nose. “—and it made me realize how long you'd been gone and that maybe you wouldn't come back this time, and I. . . didn't like that.”

“So Rubel was right, then. You really did miss me,” marveled Hastur. The glittering dark eyes staring up at him narrowed.

“Don't make this more difficult than it already is! I'm saying that I'm sorry, nothing else. End of discussion.”

Hastur sighed, “Fair enough, and I too apologize for losing my temper. You're still the most spoiled entity in the omniverse. . . but I missed you as well.”

Nyarlathotep's narrowed eyes widened, and his lips parted silently for several seconds before he looked away and muttered, “And you're still being a sap. I said, end of discussion!”

When Hastur returned to Carcosa that evening, Cassilda and Camilla greeted him affectionately as usual; then Camilla asked with an almost sly lilt to her voice, “How is Nyarlathotep, Father?”

Hastur replied, “He managed to occupy himself harmlessly enough in my absence. . . . Why?”

The young woman shrugged, and her sister covered her mouth as if to hide a smile.

“I'm only curious,” said Camilla, who was never “only” curious about anything. “What's he been doing?”

Still wondering just what his daughters were up to, Hastur decided to be forthcoming: “On my last visit to Sarkomand, I found Rubel—a sentient flower from Ooth-Nargai—among the offerings. Nyarlathotep apparently took a fancy to her after I left her at Kadath, and he tacked on a greenhouse to put her in. He claims he just finds her amusing, but I daresay he's fond of her in his own way, and she seems to adore him in return.”

Cassilda and Camilla exchanged glances, and Hastur knew some unspoken message was passing between them. Cassilda shook her head at her twin ever so slightly, but Camilla deliberately turned her face away and up towards Hastur instead.

“So Nyarlathotep did like the flower, then?” she asked with what was nearly a smirk.

“Yes. . . ?”

Camilla turned back to Cassilda and declared, “Told you so! You thought he'd let her freeze, and here he's gone and remodeled Kadath for her!”

Cassilda admitted, “Okay, okay. . . you were right.”

And with that, all became clear, and Hastur sighed, “You two left that flower as an offering, didn't you?”

“Yes—and it was Camilla's idea,” said Cassilda pointedly.

“I'm not surprised,” muttered Hastur. “But why?”

With a gentler smile than before, Camilla explained, “Because every time you come home from Kadath, you talk about how Nyarlathotep's never happy—and we know that makes you unhappy. So I thought that having something to take care of would distract him from brooding and cheer him up!”

“Then when we last visited King Kuranes in Ooth-Nargai, he showed us his garden full of those sweet little pansies,” continued Cassilda, “and Camilla decided one of them would be perfect. So we sneaked down to the garden that night and transplanted one of them into a pot.”

“Meaning you stole a flower from Kuranes to give to Nyarlathotep,” replied Hastur. “He'd be even fonder of her if he knew.”

Cassilda mumbled, “Like I said, it was Camilla's idea.”

“And it worked!” Camilla declared. “King Kuranes will never miss one little flower, and now Nyarlathotep's happy—well, happier, at least—because he has someone besides himself to think about.”

“I did consider that if someone could love Nyarlathotep, he might come to feel love in return,” Hastur admitted. “Then I decided it couldn't happen. But perhaps. . . perhaps it can, now that he has Rubel to love him, in spite of everything.”

Both of his daughters looked up at him in silence for a few seconds before they spoke, sharing one sentence between them as they sometimes did:

Camilla began, “He has Rubel to love him. . . .”

Cassilda finished, “. . . And he has you.”

Though he lacked eyes visible to them, Hastur managed to stare down at them anyway as he repeated, “Me?”

“In spite of everything,” said the twins in unison; then, in unison, they smiled.

“Good night, Father,” Camilla added as she mimed blowing a kiss in the direction of Hastur's cheek since he was far too tall for her to reach it with her lips. “Love you!”

Cassilda, always more physically demonstrative than verbally, stepped forward to hug Hastur. Still completely flummoxed, he embraced her with one arm before she slipped away from him, and the twins started to leave the room together.

Hastur almost let them go without saying anything more, but then he called, “Wait!” and they paused in the doorway to look back at him.

All of the things he might have said—the questions and protests—suddenly seemed unimportant when he saw the affection in his daughters' expressive eyes.

Instead, Hastur simply murmured, “I love you too, my dears.”

Secret Keeper