Blodwen Rowlands

Coyote's vicious satisfaction rings bitterly in her ears, so bitterly.

This one has her life and her potential.

How old is she now? She isn't certain; she can't remember. Too old for the mortal form she wears, and not young enough.

What do you have now, White Rider?

Nothing, she knows. Not even the name. Any name, perhaps.

She can't hurt anyone now. Unless they let her.

And the simple truth of her powerlessness, her helplessness, strikes through her with sharp edges, not unlike a dagger's blade.

Silently, the woman in the white dress -- without a cloak now -- turns and walks away.