Pages upon pages, upon pages of this black book are runed over. Marked in dark black of old blood, only dates remain. Words here and there, like: Hammer, Alturiak, Ches--perhaps months in a calendar from a place she was familiar with. Only Suliss'urn understood what was in these pages. What had been. Now, half of them were gone.

But in the morning, from a pack left lying near an oaken door, when the morning was silent and deep breathing of those sleeping were the only noises to keep her company, she donned a robe. Tied it absently loose about her middle and took herself to a table.

Seating herself before it, she opened the book. A strange, wrapped implement for writing in her hand.

It was a long time. A long, long time before the words came.



I am
I am
I am
I am
I am alive.



She closed the book with a quick snap of fingers. As if --frightened of what she'd done. Frightened of what happened. Closed it, and slunk, practically to her pack once more and shoved it deep within.

The moment, the actions were then put far, far out of her mind.

What is old, is new. This is the way of things. What words can a throat screamed shut, give? None.

The drums beat in my head. They call me, oh, he would flatter one side but he brought out the other. We know this; we know this but do naut care.

A sword. Bright gleaming but chipped away at by time, is still a sword. Inside the blade is an alloy that seethes with things I cannot yet understand. But I will. I will go head long into it, singing my own blades until all is mine.

Mine, mine, mine.

I have marked this, and this is mine.

Why do I write here? Do I remember what once was, or do I remember what could be? For a moment I ran alike child across a cold stone floor and dreamed.

Will we dream together, in the final moment shoulder to shoulder, the screams of the dying at our feet?

Time will tell. If I do naut break it.

In the days of my youth I had the heartbeats of hundreds within my gray palm. I could look out across the great caverns and see the polished breastplates of my houses guard standing stone-faced and ready to die at my Matron?s bidding. Die at my sisters bidding. Die at my bidding simply because I could wish it.

Truly, I have taken the knife myself and reached in with greedy hands, hammer, and chisel against bloody breastbone to crack men open like walnuts, reaching in and cupping still beating hearts.

I have consumed the lives of thousands simply by refusing to die. I have made great men weep. I have seen great men empty their bowls in my presence and cry out to their mothers before my hands have gleefully coerced the spark of life from their terrified eyes to fade out, and away, the stench of their deaths a perfume like no other.

I crushed the weak under my feet.

I have been split apart, raked in two, and then sewn back together.

I am afraid of nothing. Nothing!

And yet as the drums beat on, the tongue?s of serpents whisper, as night looms closer and closer?sword and axe and death and dancing?

I find myself pacing long halls that are not my own. I feel the snarl arising at the back of my throat, I lunge at shadows, and I wear the stone beneath my bare feet.

I fear.

But not for me.

That is new. It was the fear of self that kept me one step ahead of poison in my plate, daggers in my back, spiders hatching in my eyes?this fear, this joy of blood, this will to live.

But now, not for me.

How I hate this. How easy it is to hate. How far it is to fall. There is no web to catch me anymore.

Dosib ?nesstren!

June 11th

In the forests during winter, the small things, the very little small things, the broken little small things--they hide.

Within endless black holes dug by claws and teeth, they burrow to run from the biting cold.

And I wonder how long I must burrow away from my own winter.

July 11th

How dare he.

Insipid male, insignificant worm, useless ghost. How dare he put his teeth upon my neck as if he were...as if he knew. To take away my marks.

They are my marks. They are my memories. He cannot have them and he cannot have my throat.

I will eat his heart.

July 14th


This place is full of ghosts.

Last night I turned my head and saw one standing on the lawn.

He has broken my insides without lifting a hand.

I will do the same to him. It is only fair.

June 18th

I hunted for words. There should be words. It is what the humans do, when things get stuck between gut and gullet, stuck perpetually. (I am in a circle. A circle. A circle stuck.)

There were none. So I hunted deer but missed. Missed its throat. Rabbit will do, and I tore it in half with my teeth to find answers.

There were none.

I am not a thing that shares. I am not a thing that does well with the silence of time anymore.

Yet it is all I have, time.

Yesterday I smelled sand and dreamed. The day before I smelled the forge and saw throats needing marking.

I will tear myself in two, with no one to stick the puppet back up.

July 26th

Neitar khaless natha rivvil!

Especially in matters of costumes.

I will no longer wait. I am no longer an animal to crouch at his heel; I will find my own light and no longer stand in his shadow.

This is my life. This is my story. I cannot wait for the pages to never be filled.

There is a fist in my chest, still. It makes me think such strength is a lie.