She had run away again, and was sulking. She hated the fighting and the yelling and the blaming. So she would run into the forest and make-believe and play. At night, she would gaze up at the stars and wish she were far, far away perhaps to even have a star of her very own where she wouldn't have to depend on others.
Always before there had been the shy creatures and the stoic trees in the forest, and always there had been the silent stones to climb among. But never before had there been voices only her occasional, childishly off-key singing.
She hid and, curious, crept closer.
The voices were whispered and hushed. They spoke of things she had heard her parents allude to, but she had never paid attention to such grown-up talk. In the quiet forest, the voices grew angry and dark, and they spoke of violent, bloody things.
Her eyes widened and her pulse quickened. Her heart grew panicked. She had to get home and warn her family.
The voices left, and she ran.
She jumped down from rock to rock and ignored the scratches and the scrapes and the bruises and the pounding in her head. She burst into the clearing where her home stood and a cry escaped her lips.
She ran into the now-burning house and called out for her mother, for her father, for anyone who would come.
But there was no sound besides the roaring of fire and the groaning of wood and the distant screams. Crashing beams chased her back into the cool forest.
She stood at the edge of the clearing, watching her house burn, and cried.
She wasn't able to save the ones she loved.
She wasn't strong enough.
She wasn't powerful enough.