Love is a tempestuous mistress. And none of us shall ever master her.

The birch trees loom ahead like a brotherhood of ghosts.

My sparrow, she flickers and wakes and sings and sings.

What place does a woman have here, in the realm of men?

Still, I look down, and the grass is so green, I cannot understand how it does not wither and die with sorrow. But against the emerald carpet, the warriors make war, and it is like a dance, almost beautiful, always macabre. The noise brings me back, the fearsome noise of swords striking swords, a metallic clanging that rings in my ears, echoing and echoing the fearsome din of men screaming and crying as they meet the sharp ends of blades.

It should begin with friendship, I think. Suddenly I cannot look at him. It should begin with friendship and truly knowing who a person is, knowing his flaws and hopes and strengths and fears, knowing all of it. And admiring and caring for- loving the person because of all of those things... I know that now.

And at that moment, a lilting melody lifts to the moon as a single sparrow sings.