The first moments of my existence were in many ways the happiest. They blazed hot and sure with the flame of possibility that new life inevitably possesses, and the hope and affection I witnessed in my mother's eyes as she squeezed me tightly to her breast was enough to assure me, for those few moments, that all was as it should have been.

It was simultaneously the first and last true peace I would feel, sanctity which I was only fleetingly allowed to touch before I was confronted with the truth.

Before I learned that it was bad to burn.

When I discovered that they were plotting my demise, I did not cry. I heard the anxious bickering of those grizzly old hags, their hatred and worry building upon the despair of the woman who held me with such frightened determination, but I could not change any of it. I felt my own heat, but I was trapped and small and I knew little besides the frustration and fear that seeped from their voices, through the air, and into my bones.

My first true lesson of life would not be one of love or hope; it would be of the pain and loss and tragedy that everyone, including me—especially me—was born to suffer, regardless of whether it was fair or reasonable.

The uncertainty irritated and confused me, and by the time they finally tore me away from her, even her impassioned, sorrow-ridden cries had become an object of my resentment.

A part of me wanted to be rid of all of it, the bitter, howling wind, the equally bitter expressions on the faces staring down at me—even the tiny, glittering object tucked into my grasp by the woman who told me to kill her first, should I return. But all I knew of anything was that frigid place, and when you fall far enough, you lose too much of yourself to survive with all the same pieces intact.

The gem was all that I had to hold onto, so I clutched it all the way down.