There, conspicuous in the light of the conflagration, lay the dead body of a woman__he white face turned upward, the hands thrown out and clutched full of grass, the clothing deranged, the long dark hair in tangles and full of clotted blood. The greater part of the forehead was torn away, and from the jagged hole the brain protruded, overflowing the temple, a frothy mass of gray, crowned with clusters of crimson bubbles__he work of a shell.The child moved his little hands, making wild, uncertain gestures. He uttered a series of inarticulate and indescribable cries__omething between the chattering of an ape and the gobbling of a turkey__ startling, soulless, unholy sound, the language of a devil. The child was a deaf mute.Then he stood motionless, with quivering lips, looking down upon the wreck.
I know who you are,_ he says.Something about his tone causes my heart of smoke to flicker in response, and I throw my guard up. __h? And who, O boy of Parthenia, am I?__e nods to himself, his eyes alight. __ou__e her. You__e that jinni. Oh, gods. Oh, great bleeding gods! You__e the one who started the war!___xcuse me?___ou__e the jinni who betrayed that famous queen__hat was her name? Roshana? She was trying to bring peace between the jinn and the humans, but you turned on her and started the Five Hundred Wars.__ turn cold. I want him to stop, but he doesn__.____e heard the stories,_ he says. ____e heard the songs. They call you the Fair Betrayer, who enchanted humans with your . . ._ He pauses to swallow. __our beauty. You promised them everything, and then you ruined them.
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I know who you are,_ he says.Something about his tone causes my heart of smoke to flicker in response, and I throw my guard up. __h? And who, O boy of Parthenia, am I?__e nods to himself, his eyes alight. __ou__e her. You__e that jinni. Oh, gods. Oh, great bleeding gods! You__e the one who started the war!___xcuse me?___ou__e the jinni who betrayed that famous queen__hat was her name? Roshana? She was trying to bring peace between the jinn and the humans, but you turned on her and started the Five Hundred Wars.__ turn cold. I want him to stop, but he doesn__.____e heard the stories,_ he says. ____e heard the songs. They call you the Fair Betrayer, who enchanted humans with your . . ._ He pauses to swallow. __our beauty. You promised them everything, and then you ruined them.
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As survivors and procreators, we unravel stories that at their root are not dissimilar from the habitual behaviors seen in nature. But as beings who know they will die we digress into episodes and epics that are altogether dissociated from the natural world. We may isolate this awareness, distract ourselves from it, anchor our minds far from its shores, and sublimate it as a motif in our sagas. Yet at no time and in no place are we protected from being tapped on the shoulder and reminded, __ou__e going to die, you know._ However much we try to ignore it, our consciousness haunts us with this knowledge. Our heads were baptized in the font of death; they are doused with the horror of moribundity.
I don't care a damn about men who are loyal to the people who pay them, to organizations...I don't think even my country means all that much. There are many countries in our blood, aren't there, but only one person. Would the world be in the mess it is if we were loyal to love and not to countries?