I can still see his self-assured, smart-assed smile as he says it.

I've been stuck on that thought for days now. I was angry at first, angry at Luck for being so damn sure of himself, angry at myself for not arguing the point with him.

And now, I'm just angry that he's right.

I know that the past is eating away at me, I feel it when I let myself feel at all. Until Luck appeared in my orderly little life, I never felt anything except hunger and hate. It was easier that way. Now though, I never thought men cared this much about getting in touch with their "feelings". At least not the straight ones.

As I walk back and forth, outside the door of my parent's home, I stop and reach for the door handle then start pacing again. Admitting the past shouldn't affect my future is like accepting defeat. I don't take defeat well. If I did, I'd be dead.

It's a strong will that can go through torture and survive. Yes, I have my scars. Most of the visible ones stay hidden by my robe. The rest, the scars Luck says won't heal unless I start living for the future instead of the past, those I don't even like looking at.

I take a deep breath and push the door open. It was easier when I had a pressing reason to be here, when Luck was hurt and needed help. Now there's just memories filling the empty walls of what used to be a very happy home.

Isn't forgetting the past a disservice to those who have died and haven't been avenged? Shouldn't the living seek justice for the dead? My family. My Mother, father and little brother died. Worse, they didn't die naturally, but were swept away by greed and malice and hate. Who else will care, who else will get revenge, if I don't?

I look for answers in the house even though I know there's none to find. The ghosts of my past have long since moved on, they aren't interested in revenge or justice. That was all my mania, the thing that kept me from giving up and giving in.

"Yes, the past is something to learn from not something to build a future on."

I'm going to hate it every single time he's right, I can already tell.

And he's right a lot.

I have a new home, I have a friend who accepts me even if he doesn�t know everything there is to know about me. Secrets he says are bad. Honesty he says is good. Probably right about that, too. But I'm not ready to give up my secrets just yet, not all of them. But I am ready, I think, to give up the past.

Kneeling next to the fireplace, I tap along the bricks with my dagger hilt. It's been a very long time, but I still remember the general area, so it's not long before I hit the right brick. There it is, still loose enough to pry up with my dagger.

Shapeshifting into my most comfortable form, a rat, I scurry into the void left by the brick. I start hunting around for what amounts to my inheritance. Lordy, why did I shove it so far back. Straining (rats aren't all that strong) to push the small strongbox to the hole I entered through and scurry out again.

Dusting the cobwebs and dust from my clothes after shifting back, I reach in and pull the golden box out. I don't need look in it, I know what it contains. Tucking it under my arm, I wrap myself comfortably in shadow before I walk somberly out of the house, pulling the door shut behind me.

My last act, probably fueled by anger and loss, is to set fire to the structure that was my home. I stand close enough to feel the heat redden my face, letting it dry my tears as they roll down my cheeks. I watch until there is nothing left by a smoldering ruin. Once the place is reduced to nothing but some scorched bricks, a few ceiling timbers and ash, only then does the guard arrive. The far side of Britian has very little lawful presence, anymore.

Burning the past may be more symbolic then real for most people, but not for me. I'm more literal. And this is the best way to face a future that scares the hell out of me. At least I knew the past, the future is just a mistake waiting to happen.