Her wails cut through the silent night like a jagged blade. Cry after cry leaves her, the sounds mournful enough to move a heart of stone. If Orpheus of the Greeks could move animals and stone with his voice, then her wails would make them all cry until the lands flooded with their sorrowful tears. While wolves howling and birds of prey shrieking are believed to be bad omens that signal death, no sound is heard that night but hers. That alone is enough to strike fear into the hearts of both the mighty and the weak. Men and women alike jolt out of their slumber as they cradle their children in their arms, cooing words of comfort while for themselves, they find none.

They know she is here now, for there exists only one being whose cries are so mournful. None have seen her, but it is not hard to see the death that trails her. She is the harbinger of death and grief. There are few who do not find her heartless, and fewer still who realise that her keening and wailing is indeed because of her own pain. Pain that she feels not only for herself, but for her victims too. A soulless creature they call her, yet how can she be soulless, whose mourning cries can be described as 'soulful'?

As the light of dawn peeks out of the horizon, she gets up and leaves, walking into the unknown. This time, it is not her tears alone that have been shed. A harsh cry echoes behind her and she knows without a doubt what it is that has come to pass. She has seen it. She has warned them of it. Another life has been lost to hunger, as would many more. A young life, younger than the girl whose face is now hers. The irony is not lost on her. Despite assuming the form of a child, an embodiment of innocence and life, she serves as a siren of death.

Once more, she blends into the shadows as she will continue to be until her visions lead her feet once more. Guilt hangs upon her like a heavy cloud- a burden that would never be lifted off her shoulders, and this time, tears leave her bloodshot eyes once more. This time, she does not cry aloud. This time, she cries only for herself. For the pain that she has been forced to endure and inflict. She has felt it when she was among the living and it is something she would never have done if the choice was hers. Alas! It is not.

She had been a young girl once. Now, she takes that form once more. Death has torn her apart from everything, leaving to warn the others when such a fate awaits them. When she first sensed the coming of death, she had wailed. There was naught else that she could do back then. She has continued to do so ever since. There was a time when she had believed that the people would find time to make peace with the fact that the life of a loved one was soon to come to an end, but she knows now that it is not true. Her warning brings with it more fear and pain than can be imagined, but more than all, it brings regret. The regret of having known, yet being able to do nothing.

She is familiar with such a feeling and has been for many years now. She thinks of the family that she was torn away from by the claws of death and wonders if someday, she would have to warn them too. Would it be her brother then, the one who had been a newborn in his cradle, or would it be her elder sister who had come home only to learn that her little sister had died? Would it be her mother who had held her close, her tears staining her clothes as she cried holding the dying form of her child? Mayhap it would be her father who had frantically searched for someone who could save his dying daughter- his little flower? She does not know if her cries would ever stop if it came to be, for if she was pained now, she would be shattered then.

She sits now by the river, a silver comb in one hand, smoothing out the hair that she has pulled at. It has become a habit of hers though she knows that her mourning has left her hair beyond redemption. To her, the act is merely one of comfort and memory, if it could be called that. It is a time when she is allowed to be oblivious of her fate and pretend once more that she is like the others. That it is her mother running the comb through her hair as her fingers weave them into a style of her own. That she is a child free from the cares of the world, not a messenger of death.

Beside her lies a pile of bloodstained clothes. She is the washerwoman now. She washes the bloodstained clothes of those doomed to die. She knows that she is merely a herald, but it does not stop her from believing that the blood of all those good people are on her hands, and even as she washes those clothes, she tries in vain to wipe the blood off her hands. It is futile. Each day she washes those clothes, she knows that there will be more. She will never be free from the images that haunt her and no amount of water will render her hands clean.

She picks up a little gown as she begins to scrub the bloodstains splattered across it. She knows this gown. It is a pale shade of pink and belongs to a girl whose cheeks were once the same hue as the dress she now wears. She has seen the girl once before and knows now that yet another life must come to an end. If there is one thing she remembers of the girl, it is her smile that brings back many memories- it has been long since she has seen anyone smile- but soon, that smile will be lost forever. She has seen the short life of the girl, Aoife, flash before her mind's eye, and she knows that it is time. She looks up to see that the day is ending. The sun would soon recede into the darkness, and once more, she would find herself walking towards an unfortunate house. Before the night passed, her hands would be bloodstained once more.