minutia_r

I am Cleft Root daughter of Dawn, outcast and murderer; when they sing the names of the People around the fires at shearing-time, they do not sing mine. I sleep cold at night, for who would be the bed-mate of one who slew her beloved? Even the warmth of a four-footed companion I do not have; having no people, I cannot have wealth. Living, I am a rumor, a wind, passing without a sound, gone without a trace. Someday I must die, and then I will be forgotten.

But once, I had a friend.

I could explain what this is . . . but on second thoughts I'll just leave it here.

(No, it's not my rarewomen assignment.)