She has not forgotten the exhaling winds of mountains, their inky blue seeping into gray of old snow and melting into the color of stormy skies. The sharp wind rings on their faces, whispering into hollows and caves, blowing at the fleeting flakes of snow and weeping - as winter had never wept in these mountains. It was a cry of farewell as she gathered icy reins in her hands.
"Mirrzi," cautioned her older companion. A hand raised to cover her weary eyes against the falling fine dust of snow. That odd form of address rolled unevenly from her mouth. "Hills cry. Do not go." What sort of a Mirrzi she was, when her Mirr is lost to reason. What sort of a wife would she be if she did not at least make an attempt to pull him back before the darkness claimed and consumed him, utterly?
