isandor

Dear sister,

( (for I hope you will permit me to consider you a sister in the Light still -- as even if you choose not to devote your life to its service you are still its child, as am I) )

"Dying hurts, Sandy," he told me once. His voice was full of reproach, and his eyes held this certain confused hurt-accusation, full of this sense of How could you have let that happen to me?

"I know," I said. I didn't turn away, even though it might have made me hurt less. I owed it to him to, at least, face up to him after everything. "I know it does, Tag. That's why I let it happen. So you'd know, and you wouldn't do it again."

He was about sixteen at the time, full of brashness and life and so much passion. It was the passion that drew me to him, made me take notice. In his mayfly way, he was more alive than anyone in the city I'd left behind. He was fearless, too, which is a bad trait for a soldier, all things considered.

( Leads you to an early grave. )