[Thinlómien]

She did not return to the kitchens. Vyra would not be there, nor would Adela, the kitchen girl she had just met. There would be just some people she did not know, and she did not feel like talking to strangers now. She decided to head home.

She walked the corridors to the craftsmen's quarters. She took a turn left, walked for a while and stopped. Slowly, she picked the heavy key from her belt and opened the door, then stepped in and closed the door behind her.

Her apartment was more like a room than a house. There was nothing unnecessary there. A small, neatly made bed. Two chests, one for her most prized tools and her weapons, one for clothes and other personal belongings. A chair and a table with a bright oil lamp, a short piece of candle and a tinderbox on it. A small fireplace and a cupboard with very limited household equipment. She hardly ever made her own food, it was not something she liked doing or was good at, like most of the other craftsmen, she ate at the public kitchens.

Even in the pitch dark she knew her way to the table and managed to light the lamp. Then she walked to the cupboard and took the bottle of rum and a small wooden mug she had had since being very small. She smiled at the silly carvings on the mug and poured just enough rum to cover its bottom. She put the bottle back to the cupboard and went to sit on her chair. The bright, almost cold light of the lamp started to bother her. She took the tinderbox and lighted the candle, then put off the lamp. Normally, she only used the candle if she had run out of lamp oil, but now she preferred the weak, warm glow to the heartlessly efficient lamp light.

But of course, candlelight brought back memories. The still, solemn features in the candlelight, the hint of a smile playing on his face. The yellow glow on the white beard, the kingly rigidness, all draped in red, his colour. That image would haunt her forever, she knew. She drank her rum in one gulp. It was better to go to sleep now. She took the glass back to the cupboard and returned to put out the candle.

Then, another memory. The same candlelight, this time in a small room with a wooden roof. The glow playing on her unbraided hair, him by the doorstep. He had come late, later than was customary or appropriate. Dressed in red as usual, his hand stroking his white beard, he had apologised for the hour and pleaded her help. Flattered and excited, she had quickly cast her black cloak on herself and followed him to the darkness. They had walked the tunnels together and he had...

The flame was extinguished with a hiss. She did not want to remember more now. She brought the tips of her fingers to her lips. They hurt, she had managed to burn them. Burn them while putting out a candle the first time after she had turned ten. Pitiful, she told herself.

She made her way - just a few steps - to her bed and crawled in. She could feel tears running down her cheeks. No, not now, girl. Calm down. Now, you will sleep. Sleep, a refreshing nap. Then you will wake up and start working and remember. You will pour all your memories to the stone. But now, now you won't cry, now you won't remember. You will sleep, you will forget, you will let it be.