A Thousand Steps into Night

I think you believe you ought to be small," he said softly, almost meditatively. "I think you have been taught that greatness does not belong to you, and that to want it is perverse. I think you have folded yourself into the shape that others expect of you; but that shape does not suit you, has never suited you, and all your young life, you have been dying to be free of it." Miuko blinked. It was as if the doro had dug his fingers inside of her and pulled from her heart some deep-rooted weed, so long established that she'd forgotten it was there, choking her every breath. "Do I see you?" the doro asked.

I think you believe you ought to be small,” he said softly, almost meditatively. “I think you have been taught that greatness does not belong to you, and that to want it is perverse. I think you have folded yourself into the shape that others expect of you; but that shape does not suit you, has never suited you, and all your young life, you have been dying to be free of it.

Once, at Ogawa Castle, Miuko had thought him lonely; but now, seeing him encircled by such unrepentant destruction, she understood that he could never be lonely, because he did not desire company. No, what he desired was subjugation, and that meant he would always be alone, above all others.

She could not help but think of her mother and how much she would have loved it, how she would have devoured every sight, every souund, every phantasmagoric scent wafting up from the volcanic fissures and meadows of drunken, chittering flowers.

He was meandering along one of the paths, watching the fire crackle around him as if it were an opera—stirring, magnificent—and he, its only patron.

To anyone else, the appearance of the village might have been cause for alarm, but to Miuko, who had only ever known such deterioration, it was beautiful in its ordinariness.