I looked back, noting the light of a beacon, one which burned on a deserted shore.

        Few would see the beacon. Few would know why it burned. I myself did not know. Perhaps it served simply to mark a place, which, for a time, the flames might remember.

        Let the fire, if not men, remember what had once occurred.

        In time there would be only ashes, and they would be swept away by the wind and the rain. The tracks of sea birds might, like the thief's brand, be found in the sand, but they, too, in time, would be washed away.

        I was not dissatisfied that I had set the beacon. It did not matter to me that few would see it. It did not matter to me that none would understand it.

        I myself did not know, truly, why it burned... but it had seemed important to me to set it.

---Third Day of the Second Hand of the Twelfth Month,  10, 151 Contasta Ar.


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