Most stories begin at the beginning. Some begin in the middle. But I go by the lesson my Auntie Greta drummed into me all those years when it was just her and me in that little house off the highway. We didn’t have a TV, and our electricity came from this old generator. Point is, there wasn’t much entertainment besides the books we got at the library or taking walks in the woods, but leaving the house at all – whether to pick up new books or find a new trail – was dependent on the weather, and that was a tricky, fickle thing.
So my Auntie Greta told me stories, and she taught me how to tell them too. She taught me that sometimes beginning at the end is more efficient. This story, for instance, began with the end. Auntie Greta and me – we’re the last survivors of the sprawling Greensword family, and our story begins hundreds of years ago. I know as many tales and legends about our family as Auntie Greta does, and maybe a few more since I learned to use the computers at the library and managed to find out some other stories people tell about us.
But out of the dozens of stories Auntie Greta and I told each other, there’s only one that really meant something to us. It was our story; the story of living with the knowledge that we were the last of our kind and that there would be no more. Let me tell you, that was some burden to bear. We’re still living it, Auntie Greta and I. Our story is the ending of a long epic, but it’s not over quite yet.