They stood on the balcony of the House in Ar. The streets below them were filled with the residents of the Theatre District. Oman rested her hands on the balustrade, leaning over to watch the festivities with a smile on her young, bare, face. So much happiness abounded. Drink, songs, and comradery. A man, perhaps her age, waved up to the balcony. His drink sloshed staining his tunic and he laughed. She laughed.
From the shadow of the awning the man in Black spoke to her, " It is not enough to want it, or to deserve it. You are not to simply be a Woman," his words had her turning an ear in his direction. When he spoke, she listened. Always.
The din of the crowd below tuned out, " You must be above reproach. Do you understand? ", he pulled a beautiful black woolen scarf out of his vest.
The words rang in her ears. She was still so impressionable, so young and malleable. Disbelief overwhelmed her as slowly, their implication came into the light. Oman looked down from her perch. Surprise, shock, and sadness in her pale eyes. Blood drained from her face and fingers. The man on the street in his simple tunic raised his peasant's cup in a toast. His best friend slapped him on the shoulder. She understood it all to clearly then. The sound from the festival came back all at once in a deafening cacophony. Moments later, she waved back down to the street below. With numb fingers, she wound the black scarf around her face.
Unseen since.
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