Through the quiet darkness with the moon over her shoulder, she fell.
Toward the sea below, and the rocks, toward the foaming maelström between them, she fell.
She pulled her hands and arms into a point above her head, or rather below it, steering with her legs in the wind of her own passage.
Down and down and faster and faster, her breath tight and painful, not because she was holding it but because it came so fast that it could not be held.
She fell toward the water, silent except for the pounding of the wind and the roaring of her heart; she fell, not by accident but on purpose; she had jumped and she had not been pushed.
On the cliff above the men watched her fall, knowing that she had chosen escape into death rather than let them catch her, touch her, find out who she was, stop her from living to tell anyone what she had seen.
She struck the sea at the last, at the very end of her fall, the inevitable surprise at the bottom of every dive and she knifed cleanly through the water the way he had taught her and she knew that to the men above she had simply disappeared because she made no splash and hardly a sound at all, not one they could hear anyway though to her it sounded like the crash at the end of a world.
But, she lived.