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[Xana]

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The swing hung from a great majestic oak tree, the suspension points so far above that they could not be seen through the canopy. Seeing this brought forth feelings that for many would have been memories, but for Xana were more of a yearning. There were no swings in the Minoc camp in which she grew up.

Cautiously she left the roadway and tested the strength of the ropes, and they seemed safe. Her movements ginger and exacting, Xana sat on the seat that was made of wood so old it appeared nearly silver, its surface worn with how many years of use by laughing, carefree children.

With a little push of her feet, the swing was set in motion. At first she felt a little frightened as the swing began to move, slowly at first. So long were the ropes, that even as the swing picked up speed their arc was slow, almost graceful, in its execution.

The jewelry caught the wind, and created a soft tinkling sound, the scarf covering her hair floated behind her with its fine silken fringe aloft on the breeze, and she tilted her head back in an unconscious effort to bask in sunlight that was no more than a trickle of light through the greenery overhead.

For a little while, her pain was forgotten and her heart was light. Also out of mind was the frustration at trying to learn the strange little three-stringed Tokunese instrument she'd acquired not so long ago. In this singular moment, time meant nothing; Xana felt the carefree existence of a child.

She was happy.
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An artist is a creature driven by demons ~Faulkner