It was as if a thousand fireflies had found home in the bower, drifting in the warm evening breeze, dusting every branch, every blade of grass, bathing the world in pale gold. It was such dear magic, such a [i]wonder[/i], and Samaire's heart ached at the sight. The world was soft, as if it were a kind place, a good one, and it was a lie but spirits, it was one she wanted desperately to believe in.

The nymph's voice echoed in the deepest parts of Samaire's bones, calling to traces of old blood.
  
[I]"<The Cathan took spirits as lovers once>," the river told her, black eyes gleaming, pale blue fingers weaving braids through Samaire's hair. 

"<But spirits don't have bodies>," Samaire puzzled, twisting to look up at her friend. 

"<They did, once, when your kind wished without restraint. There's old magic in your veins, child.>"[/i]
  

The nymph trailed fingers down the manthing's skin, her earthen eyes turning on Samaire. It coveted her man thing, loathed the metal chaining it, and Samaire's heart felt as though someone had clenched it in a fist.

"<I need>," Samaire's voice was thick with desperation, "<Home--home burned, Glass Eyes kill, I-->"

A frustrated noise tore from her throat, green eyes stinging. She couldn't find the words, couldn't do justice to the nightmare, couldn't make the nymph [i]see [/i]why she needed the manthing. Samaire tried to blink away the tears, tried to be strong, to be a Cathan. 

But if she'd been a true Cathan, she'd have died and Gildas would have lived.

"<Glass eyes killed everyone>," she choked on a sob. The river of grief had carved oxbows ever wider, curving until it burst into a flood, screaming down its old path. Samaire was a child playing at a First, useless tears and shoulders shaking, "<Mother, father, brothers Glass Eyes killed--find can't, I--I can't find, kill I have--it, he, stronger, can kill, strength I need, own don't have enough.>"