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She half-sings, half-wails: You killed him you killed him you killed him you killed him -- The warrior turns to face her, and the master marvels at the sight of it, for the shift in the warrior's head and shoulders is as weary as that of an old man, even older than the dead man cradled in his arms. Do I know you? he says to her. She is still at the table, having found her split cloak and wrapped it around herself like a blanket. She is splashing herself with the tea, cleansing the wounds, the tea leaves all over her body like scabs. Wait -- the warrior says.  |
She is backing away from him, inching towards the front gate. Even with the ruin of the upper half of her body, her legs and feet move with the purposefulness of a dancer, covering the distance with nary a falter. The wind tosses the leaves about the stone floor underneath her, and it carries a plangent sound with it -- a faraway siren. An air raid warning. There is a squelch of feedback as a megaphone is activated in the distance, in the town below. Clear the streets! Get to your designated shelters! We are under attack! This is not a drill! The warrior totters forward, lifting an arm, wanting to grab hold of her, believing that the slightest touch will bring her back, but she is  |
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