Dawnlark Plains i watched the fire that grew so low

she'd wanted to stand vigil beside her father's body, as her uncle did. yet when the crowd had drifted, dispersed, she found herself moving far from the borders, where only the faintest sound reached the plains when she hung back her head and sung her grief to the gathering dusk. she'd let all the tightly boxed-in emotions pour out, note after note, and only when tiredness crashed down did she stop and return with no ceremony.

when finally she returned, it was to her sobbing brother and her uncle, vigilant still. she moved, shoulders hunched, to stand beside the similarly-pelted boy, offering her silent presence as she had Catori; too spent, too tired, to speak or to grieve as he did.