The morning dawns bleak and cold. There is a nothingness promised in the rising sun, like the world has suddenly dropped off at the horizon line. And for her, it has.

Someone calls her name; they can see her now in the light of dawn. But she doesn't hear. She's staring into the dying embers of the fire like a madwoman.

They twinkle and crack almost merrily in the still morning, the only sound in a flat void. They drive her insane with their cracking and twinkling. She wants to snuff them out; knows she should. But she can’t find the strength to.

She remembers what used to stand in these ruins. She remembers the blackened beams that used to be a magnificent building. Most of all, though, she remembers the people that used to be there. That are probably still there among the ashes, who they’ll never find.

And yet, there are no tears on her face. Exhaustion has crept into her bones, so real and depthless that she can’t even cry. She wants nothing more than to sleep. But she won’t be able to. The nightmares will come, and she won’t get any rest.

People will say that she looks terrible. She will think that she has every right to. But she won’t say anything. She’ll pass on by without a word, without any show of emotion.

Nothingness, the sun chides with its sickening promise, there is nothing.

She is nothing. Her soul has run away with its tail between its legs. It’s hiding, somewhere in the back of her mind. For now, though, she’s just an empty shell. A stone figure bent against the wind in the chill dawn, fragile.

There should be something. Some sign in the embers, some reconciliation for damages that will never be repent. Something, anything. But there is nothing.

The fire meant something, so she assumes the embers must mean something as well. She doesn’t know what. She doesn’t care.

The someone that had called her name approached her now, putting a light hand on her shoulder. She doesn’t feel the contact.

There’s a voice in her ear. “Aitana… Come on. Come get some rest.” She recognizes the voice of a neighbor. A friend. Concern, for her. She frowns slightly.

And still, Aitana doesn’t break eye contact with the embers. They are staring her down. The voice urges again.

She can’t remember when she raises her red-rimmed eyes and stops staring. It’s all blurry, that day. She can remember, though, the way the smoke curled as it drifted on the air, light and grey and almost-nothing. She remembers the smell of burning wood and burning flesh… The scent of Death, all around. In her mouth. Choking her.

As she looks out across the land, she sees that where there were once tall and magnificent buildings, there is nothing. Only small and insurmountable piles of rubble. She thinks that there could be no way that these were once homes.

The voice and the hand on her shoulder urges once more. “Come with me, Aitana. We’ll get to the nurse.”

Aitana wants to scream. She doesn’t want the nurse. She didn’t want to leave her family like this. She wanted answers and peace and sleep and…

She doesn’t really know what she wants. The robbers will be here tomorrow, she knew. What was left of her family’s estate would be gone.

Slowly, she begins to sift through the rubble. There is one thing she doesn’t want them to get; one heirloom that had been here for ages. From back when her family was the most influential in Gemazyde. Before the Fade, as her mother used to call it.

She finally finds it at almost the bottom of the pile. With some effort, she gets it free. There are ashes all over it. She’ll have to clean it.

Aitana rises from the ashes what once must have been a beautiful sword. The hilt is a mahogany color, made of some sort of strong oak. There are engravings on the glossy surface, but she can’t read them. She’s never been able to. They are beautiful, though, in their mysterious and almost arcane way.

The pommel and crosshair are made of almost pure silver. They aren’t shiny now… They are rather dull and covered in ashes. Polish will take care of that, she thinks. The sheath is imbedded with tiny gems and the same script that covers the hilt. She won’t draw it now. She doubts she could if she wanted to.

There is something shiny in the hole created by her digging. Almost as an afterthought, she reaches down and grasps it. It pulls free easily; it is a small thing. A gold band, with some large gaudy gem on it. It will sell and get her what she needs.

Because now, there is nothing.

The neighbor at her shoulder reaches into the charred rubble as well, and pulls out a chain. There is a small, delicate opal hanging from it. Carefully, the neighbor places it in Aitana’s pocket. She will want it later, she knows.

Only now, she allows herself to be lead away from what used to be her home.