She wore the broken locket, though it haunted her.
Its scorched backing a reminder of the fire,
The fire she had started.
The bloodstains marking the hands that clutched it as they banged against the door,
Until the front of it snapped off.
The melted chain a haunting message of just how destructive and hot flames could be.
She hated the locket with a passion few could possess without it overcoming them.
But she did not throw it away.
It was her burden to carry, to taunt her with nightmares of their screams,
Its weight threatening to crush her.
Still she wore it, her load never relieved
Until she lay dead on the battlefield,
Where it lay glittering at her throat.