I am old enough to know better. Of course I am. An immortal among mortals, watching them blossom and fade like morning flowers in the noonday sun - how could I have allowed myself to feel for her, this bright blossom of a Lishaya?
Isobel. Her name was Isobel, and she died today, died of the Plague that ravages this countryside. I watched her weaken, helpless - my gifts could not help her. She needed yours, brother, and you were too far away, and the disease advancing too quickly.
The girl who danced, who kissed me dizzy, the wise and impish girl barely grown to womanhood - I held her all through her last days, cradling her as she grew lighter, thinner. I held her as she died, I kissed her cooling forehead, and I am building her pyre.
I feel hollow. Brother, sister - I have not known grief like this in centuries. I have not spoken since she died, since what-was-Isobel left her frail body. I feel as if I will never speak again.
I cannot allow myself to love them again. I cannot.
I will bring her ashes to ki'Lishaya'ra; I will bring them to the grove at the heart of the castle, where she was first made, where she first died - in your arms, then, brother. Did you feel like this? How did you bear it?
I will bring her ashes to the city her people have deserted, and I will dwell there a while. I will not walk among them.
I did not mean to love her. I am a fool, and she was my heart, now torn from me.