Your name is Ianthe.
You have a sister. "I love you," she says.
"I love you," you say, and you are happy.
You have parents. "Love me," you say.
"Your sister is so beautiful," they say.
You are a necromancer. You have a talent, a real talent. Your sister does not.
"They won't love me now," she cries.
"I love you," you say. You can be enough necromancer for both of you. You have a talent. Your parents are pleased.
"Love me?" you ask.
"Your sister is so gifted," they say.
God summons you to be his hand. You are patient. You are diligent. You are so fucking talented. You are the first to find the way.
"Eat me", your sister begs.
"But I love you!" you refuse.
"You don't love me," she cries.
There's another girl. Quiet. Avoidant. As talented as you. She learns from your example. She finds the way.
"Eat me," her cavalier demands.
"But I love you," she refuses.
"Love me," you whisper.
She tells you to shatter her mind.
You are with God. You passed His tests. You claimed His power. You did it all by yourself. "Love me," you demand.
"Would you like some tea, Harrowhark?" he says.
She's still with you. Her mind is broken. Her talent is spent. Her power is failing. She has destroyed herself for her love. Love me, you think.
The end approaches. Her doom is nigh. You can survive. You can save her. "Love me," you beg.
"I could never love you," she spits.
The end comes, and then goes. God lives by your intervention alone. His other hands are dead. He is broken. All his power is yours. The entire universe spreads out before you, ripe for the taking.
"Love me!" you scream.
"Love me," you sob.
Love me.
Your name is Ianthe. And you are alone.
