(Thurvishar—an aside)

There is a consensus held amongst most living beings that, given a choice between life and death, most of us will choose life. Life, with her bed mistress Hope, is laced with infinitely more possibility than her sister Death. People address her as Queen of the Land of Peace but flinch when her name is uttered out of turn. There is, always, that nagging suspicion that Death is a cheat, that the Land of Peace is anything but. Death offers no solace. Or worse, Death might truly be as the priests commend it: a place of justice where we get what we deserve.

And truly, few among us are willing to stare at that bright mirror and see our reflections. For all of us harbor that secret guilt, we shall be found wanting, shall be judged undeserving. Death is that last and most final of exams—and the majority of us, I suspect, would wish for a few years’ more preparation.

Not yet. Dear goddess, not yet.

I found myself thinking of this as I watched a boy of twenty years offer his life to save his family from certain death and oblivion. There were few in that room who would have volunteered to take his place. Darzin thought him a fool, no doubt. And Gadrith admired him as one might admire a strange, alien creature one could only study but never understand. I cannot say what I would do, were I given the same option as Kihrin.

But then, this is not my story.