'If I go back to Bree, if I disappear into the crowd. I can keep people at a comfortable distance.' This is what went through Sicarra's mind a year ago. But she couldn't keep running from herself forever. Why did it seem as if those around her knew exactly who they were? Also what they wanted? There were times when she knew who she was. Then she'd look in the mirror, only to be met with confusion, she could see into the soul of another. Yet, when she tried to look into her own. That was another matter entirely. Pots and pans, plates and forks. More things she'd get lost in. Perhaps this is the price of empathy, being able to see everyone else, except yourself.
She thought she needed peace. It is possible that she does. However, what is peace? True, solid, peace. Sicarra did not know. Her kind are not generally associated with peace. Her people thrived on suffering. They are the experts of creating their own problems. If a Dunlanding has not suffered, then they have not lived. It is almost like the Hill-men are addicted to pain. If there is no suffering, then what has been gained? Sicarra always knew that she was different. It haunted her, bothered her to no end. She did not understand why, but this is the truth.
She sat alone in her rented room, considering all of this, a single lute peg in her hand. She stared at it. Sicarra thought of the person connected to it. How could something bring both irritation and comfort?
