Ah, but they are stubborn, these two. She sat at the river’s edge and began to fold the piece of paper she’d carried down, over and once more and just another time will be enough but no, so again and again until it was as small and silent as it was ever going to be. And then there was nothing more to do.
She threw it into the water.
The mind is such a libertine when it pleases. Were there two? Because it was only one who had written. No, there must be two, certainly two. How else to explain the discord, and then this endless stream of stories.
Not that she read them anymore, now the rituals had begun.
Because the words recalled dark chaos and sometimes even a single one was too much like the sun going down and this confused her sense of time and meaning. Yes, two of them. It had to be. To think otherwise would be to imagine something divided against itself, and that was no longer possible.
She lay back smiling in the grass, fingered the long scar on her thigh, and waited for sleep.