LAST NIGHT I DREAMED OF HAZEL D’ARK.
Thief, clonelegger, confidence trickster, warrior . . . heroine. Official legend made her fearless and noble, a saint and a martyr, but she was none of those things. Her dreams were small and petty, and she never gave a damn for causes or politics, but still . . . she was magnificent. She took on everything the Empire could throw against her, and never once backed down. She had her inner demons, and fought those just as fiercely. When it mattered, she did the right thing. Again and again and again.
In my dream, I see her so clearly. Poor, lost Hazel; with her sharp pointed face, the go-to-hell defiance of her bright green eyes, her ratty mane of red hair. Her pout and her scowl and her brief flashing smiles. She moved like a fighter because life had never taught her how to be tender. She fought so hard to be able to call her life her own, and much good it did her. She won nothing she valued, and lost the only man she ever cared for.
Owen; you lied to me. You promised me we’d always be together, forever and ever. Oh Owen; I never told you I love you. . . .
She won every battle, and still lost the war. And in the end, there was nothing left but the darkness that had threatened to overwhelm her all her life; so she ran away into it, and was never seen again.
Last night I dreamed of Hazel d’Ark. She’d finally come home. She was smiling. And even in my dream, I wondered why I wasn’t glad to see her.