Musing

Who are you? he asked again. I told you, I don't know. Then she smiled, a surprising flash of amusement that transformed her solemn little face into something astounding. I'm a dreamer, I suppose, or maybe I'm a dream. One of us is dreaming this, aren't we? But that was a jest, he knew. She was no idle wisp of either his fancy or her own--she was strong and practical. He could feel it. And who are you? A prisoner , he told her, and knew it was true. An exile. A victim. Now for the first time he felt something other than kindness from her, a sour taste in her reply. A victim? Who isn't? That isn't who you are, that's just what's happening to you. --Selection from Tad Williams' Shadowplay