She was one of a pair, the first of the two halves of a breath. One of two eyes, a bud on a branch where two had grown. But the twin bud had withered, too soon to bloom. The second eye had closed and the end of the breath had been issued, the last breath that had no twin.

“O, blessed Mother!” she cried, two hands extended to the star-dusted sky, heart torn in twain for the second half of her that had ceased to live. She sat on the stone of the ground, arms raised just so, glaring over the great expanse of the valley below her. There she could see her brother’s barrow, fresh covered with the brown, crumbling earth that had borne him for all his short life. Distant twin peaks of the great mountain cast moonshadows over the grassy valley, trees standing stark, half-naked with the coming of winter.

Twin trails had etched their way through the grime on her face and were dry, all her tears having been spent. Her other half had gone, and gone for good, deep into the Summerland where she could not follow, was not to follow for some indeterminate length of time. And all she could do was throw her heart out to the night sky, rock to and fro, and pray for divine explanation.

Adain.. the breeze seemed to call. Adain. And more than anything, she prayed for the wings that her name promised her. Adain, child with wings, and yet here she sat, feeling utterly apterous. Her brother, beautiful Bran, was dead.