“No name?” Fahnosomething frowned.
“We create those for ourselves, too, or choose a name from what others call us. Generally later, once we’re more certain of who we are—but that is why this sibling of mine has come, in fact. She seeks to learn her nature, and thinks she might find it here among your kind.”
“Fascinating.” To me, Fahnosomething said, “What do your parents call you, little one?”
I jumped. “They call me You, FahnoIDon’tKnowWhichOtherNamesToCallYou. I don’t mind if you call me that, too!” Even though the mortal word for you was so thin and flat. It contained nothing of my essence or experiences, nothing of what Fahnosomething thought of me. It was just a syllable.
Fahno twitched, which was a funny sort of thing for her to do. “You may call me Fahno-enulai. And—I’m sorry, but we’ll need something more than You to work with. Can you just choose a temporary name for now?”
I looked at Ia, frowning and trying to understand why this was so important. “Mortals cannot perceive one another’s souls,” he explained. “They need names, and sight and other things, to tell one another apart.”
“That is so sad!” I looked at Fahno and put a hand to my mouth, because that was one of the worst things I’d ever heard. “You poor things.”
“We get by,” said Fahno in a wry tone. “But names are one of the, ah, coping mechanisms we use.”
“Oh. OK, then.” I thought really hard for a minute. Well, I was in a mortal shell, so I would start with that word. “Shell? Ssss. Ssss… shhh. Sh.” I liked the roundness of the sh sound, and the languor of the ll. “Shrill?” No, but—“Shill?” It had… weight. And even meaning: in their language it was decoy. I was pretending to be mortal, wasn’t I? “Shill.” I looked at Ia, who ignored me. I looked at Fahno. “Shill? I like Shill.”
“Shill it is, then.” She looked me up and down. “Interesting.”
“Huh?”
“Well, you appear to be a healthy Darren girl of perhaps six or seven years old. Except for your eyes—oh!” I had just made my eyes brown instead of gold, like Fahno’s; she chuckled. “Ah, yes. Now you could pass for some niece or granddaughter of mine. Did you do that on purpose?”
I shrugged, because I hadn’t, except the eyes, which I had, and I didn’t know how to answer. “It’s what other mortals on this continent look like. Also, it just felt right.”
“Ah. And why did you choose that name?”
“I just picked things that sounded pretty and put them together.”
“Why those syllables, though?” I blinked, and Fahno sat forward, propping her elbows on her knees. “Even for gods, a name encapsulates some proportion of who you are. There’s a reason those syllables sounded pleasant to your ear. There’s a reason you combined them in that particular manner, and a reason the whole appealed to you. Perhaps you should think about that.”
I inhaled and stared at her. “You know a lot about gods!”
She chuckled. “Thank you for noticing. That was just observation, though. I’ve never met a godling child before.” She took a deep breath and turned to Ia again, her smile fading. “Which is why, old friend… I’m going to turn you down.”
Ia frowned. “You are the best of the enulai, Fahno. If anyone can manage a newborn godling—”
“I am also the oldest of the enulai, Ia. I’ve retired! All the godlings I once looked after have been assigned to others. I haven’t the energy to keep an eye on a mortal child, let alone one who can gallivant about the universe at will. I’m sorry, old friend, but I just can’t.”
Ia looked surprised and sad and sort of… scared? I didn’t know why. It was weird that somebody so scary could be scared too! I would ask him about it later. To Fahno I said, “What’s all that mean?”
I don’t think Ia heard me. Fahno had a weird sad look on her face while she looked at Ia, but she said to me, “We call it the Compact, little one. An agreement made some three hundred years ago, when mortalkind finally grew weary of being caught in the gods’ cross fire, and the Three left us to manage our own affairs. If you mean to do more than just visit this world now and again, if you would live among us, you must have a minder to see that you wreak a minimum of havoc. An enulai.” She touched her own breast. “But I cannot be your enulai; I am too old.” She paused for a moment, her gaze flicking back to Ia again. “I think my dear friend forgot that even we demons eventually grow old, and die.”