Burdens of the Dead: Prologue

    Under the harvest moon, at the crossroads between east and west, a woman stood weeping. Year upon long, weary year, she came, waiting for her answer. Others had their answers, but never she; her child never returned, neither in person nor in word. She looked constantly to the north, to the place where the Earth-Shaker had opened the gate and drowned her land and her people; but not to the south, where he had killed one of her children and held hostage the other. The Earth-Shaker was deaf, or gone, faded into the half-dream of the forgotten. Her child remained his captive. Others were gone too, her brothers and sisters of old, gone, forgotten, faded into shadow. Only she did not fade; only she remembered. There might be nothing left to her but the waiting, yet still, she would remain until the appointed hour wherein she might, might have word. She would wait until that hour had faded too, she would be there until the hours when the worlds touched were over once more, steadfast as stone, sorrowful as grief itself. The dogs at her side waited, patient and faithful. Every now and again one leaned against her and she put a hand down to caress the silky red ears. She drew strength from them and they gave it to her, willingly. She had no other worshippers now.

    She stood at the great crossroad, looking at the gate that had failed, until moonset. And then, as the red fingers of bloody dawn slid across Anatolia, she turned to choose her way. As always, looking at the crossroad, she took the third way. That, then, and always, was her choice.

    The dogs followed Hekate down.

    She was their goddess. They were all she had.