Orcrist is not factual. This is something she knew. But for
a moment, she lets herself dream. The house lights darken. Flickers, only:
Lynchian glimmers. A fire, kindled in an iron brazier; thrumming bass notes
from full Marshall stacks that the sun alone powers. Then lights: a full band,
Iago and his nebulous musical brothers—Glamdring, Aragorn, Narsil, Olorin—all
filth and eschatological, final. Iago wears a stag’s skull on his brow, white
lights animating his irises. The crowd, hundreds somehow fitting in this space,
stands mesmerized, hushed. Then cheers as the band begins: shreds of guitar,
grandeur and synthesizer, allegiances sworn immediately: a new congregation:
the sorceress rising from their cloud of music and incense to conquer the
planet. All her aims fulfilled.

What had she wanted from him, beyond that?
Nervously she shifts from foot to foot, wanting to die, wanting to be alive, a
pulse of hot adrenalin: what had she wanted from anything, beyond motion toward
something?