Night. Women and animals move in the alleys of the city. They creep, keeping in the shadows away from the glittering men-only galas. Wealthy entrepreneaurs and their rented 'girls' laugh and drink and dance the night away. These 'girls' are not women. Genetically modified for beauty and infertility, they are no more women then Pomeranians are wolves.
Night. Women creeping, sneaking, flowing out of the city, vanishing into the dark of the forest. They are not wanted, they would not stay.
The last woman in the city stands on the roof of the Shrine and watches the sun come up. Golden light slowly illuminates the fields and forests beyond the high stone walls, creeping over female farms to fall upon the men-formed factorys. Her sisters are out there, but she could not join them. She is sworn to the Goddess, Creator of the Patterns, as a protector of the rhythms. For this, she must remain, and keep the patterns true. She does not care how long it would take, she had time. The swearing in of the Protector insures incredible long life, for one could not tend the patterns if one would die before half a repeat. She knows that, some day, they would notice. And so she waits.
They come to her one warm day, three full sun-turns later. She stands before them in the Shrine to the Goddess, her face uncovered, as an equal rather than a subordinate. She is deity-protected, despite her sex and low birth, she will not bow down to these men.
They look at her in amazement, taking in her sensibly braided dark hair and sharp grey eyes. These are important men, powerful men, wealthy men. It is possible that they have never seen the face woman who is not a 'girl'. Her habit is a simple soft gold, a woman's color. It is the shade of the first dawn's light, the soft brush of hair on an infant's head, warm stalks of wheat tended by small hands.
"So, you have noticed." Her voice is as rough as the stone around them. She had not spoken the men's-tongue in a long time.
"Yes. We think we may be able to find answers here. Have we presumed correctly?"
"The last time a Director came to the Protector for advice was the fifth Sun-turn of the age of Tremia, nigh on 300 turns ago. What could have provoked this sudden change?"
The Director looks at her. There is a world between the two of them. He is tall, olive skinned, with the rare amber eyes of the high-born. She is short, with skin like cream and sharp, commoner's grey eyes. He wears a tunic embroidered in violet silks. She is clad in the simple habit of her order. Yet, here, she has the power. There are no women save her remaining in the City, and she is sworn to the Goddess. They have thirsted so much for so long for a world only of men, with 'girls' for pleasure. They have cared for this and only this for so long, pushing women into the dark shadows of the alleys and river-caves. The Shrine of the Goddess remains the only women's-temple in the City, for although these men did not respect her anymore, She takes care to protect her own.
At last, one of the others speaks. He is the youngest there, perhaps one of the last children born before marriage was abolished and women veiled and thrown out of their homes. "There are no more children in the City."
"There are no women either." she reminds him in a cool voice. Has this mere child ever met a woman? It is unlikely, he cannot be much older than twenty turns and women have been sequestered for far longer than that.
"The population of the City is dropping. Your precious patterns are broken. What do you suppose to do about it?" This is the last man. He is the kind the Goddess will strike, cold and utterly sure of his superiority.
She smiles, cold and calm, the smile of a wolf before the kill. This is why she is here, to tell them this. This is why she was born so long ago.
"They are not my precious patterns. The pattern is there to protect our race, to keep us on a path of hope. But we are free to turn from this path at any time.
Two hundred turns ago men chose to do this. They did not consult a Protector, they did not ask the blessing of the Weaver of this thread. They turned the race from the path of hope. Two hundred turns ago, men forced women to veil their faces. And so it began.
And now, all women have left the City for our lands beyond. We will not return. This is the pattern you ha ve chosen. I hope you weave it well."
And so the last woman in the City left the Shrine of the Goddess. The director smoldered with anger, the young man looked worried, the misogynist sneered. The last woman in the City walked past the governance office, past the boats of the ultra-rich, past the district of the 'Girl'-Houses. She walked out the hidden Women's Door in the wall, out into the world.
Past the factories, out into the fields and forests that men considered too unimportant to visit. There city-women joined the peaceful forest people to build their own pattern.
And so they waited with the patience of those who know they are right. One day the walls of the city will crumble, and the smokestacks of the factories will stop, and the women will return to the City.