It was winter, and Desdemona walked outside of the city. She was wearing a long black gown, with a low neckline and long sleeves. Her black hair was held loosely in a ribbon, and she wore a simple gold necklace. She sat in the snow outside of the wall of the city and took a dagger from a small sheath at her waist. She pulled her sleeve back and traced a thin line with the dagger. Blood flowed from the cut, standing out against her pale skin.

A few seconds later she realized what she had done. She grabbed her handkercheif and wrapped it around her arm. "Stupid, utterly stupid." she said.

Hadn't she already gotten over her grief? Her grief when she found out that her father and brother had been killed? That her mother was missing? It had been two years since all of that had happened anyway.

After a while, she began to cry, tears flowing freely out of her violet eyes. "Stop that," she said to herself, "You shame your father. First you cut yourself, and then you go and cry. What is wrong with you?"

She turned to go back in the city, but something kept her from going. She wasn't ready to return . . . not yet.

She took off her necklace, and looked at it. It had been a gift from her parents, given to her on her twelfth birthday. Ten days before she was kidnapped. She was kept for five years, and manged to escape and return home. When she returned, no one was home. Her father and brother lay dead, but there was no sign of her mother. Two years had passed since that horrible day.

Desdemona started to cry again, but her tears were silent, she couldn't force a single sound out of her mouth.