2 hours, 2,700 words. Spent the first bit of time going over the outline, and also some time grodding around inside the Green manuscript.
I sat among the autumn-blooming clover and picked at my memories as if they were old wounds. Fat, slow bees bumbled about me. Their drone was desultory, indifferent. Empires would rise and fall, gods pass from bloody birth to fiery death, every woman who ever lived rest quietly in her grave, and still the bees would find their way to the flowers.
That was a lesson for me, I was certain of it. Sick of lessons, I ignored the thought.
My memories were little better. Federo, locked inside the bandit-god-king Choybalsan, such a look in his eyes at the last. Septio, the only man I’d ever bedded, as his neck snapped within the loving circle of my arms. Shar, the woman who’d lived with my father into the final days of his ruin. Cities full of flame and despair, knives in the dark, my fear racing faster than even the flying of my feet.
“Stop!” I shouted.
My words echoed among the silent graves of this empty hillside.