Dawn breaks in roseate fire, striking sparks off the saw-toothed obsidian hills, and Ursa's little cavalcade halts to breathe its mounts and make its hasty orisons. She bows her head in silence, in the shadow of her hood, scarcely daring even to beg that her ancestors' just anger spare her faithful companions -- not blameless, but faithful, though she is faithless and fainthearted too, not to follow the Fire Lord into the long dark ...
"Mistress?"
She presses her hands to her cheeks -- for comfort, for caution -- then lowers her hood to show the sun a face that defies her heart.
"Love is a growing, or full constant light, / And his first minute, after noon, is night."
-- John Donne, "A Lecture Upon the Shadow"