A Deadly Act

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The old man howled as he carried his dead daughter in his arms.

He bellowed his grief, staggering forward, one plodding step after another, burdened by her weight and her death.

His daughter was young and slim and beautiful. She had on a long midnight-blue dress that accentuated the paleness of her skin. One of the old man's arms clasped her beneath her knees; the other cradled the back of her neck. Her head lolled a little backward, her tawny hair hanging straight down in a single intricate braid.

She had been an impressive woman not too long ago. Honest, valiant, noble. But now she was no more.

The old man had been impressive as well. Other men had looked up to him, respected him, did his bidding. He had emanated generosity and wisdom and kindness. Now he was but a shadow of his former self. His fall had been long and swift and hard. I could relate, for though I had never been as high as he, I too had suffered a fall into near nothingness. And I, too, had lost daughters.

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