[ A woman... taught her verses by heart, spoken to her. Whispered, perhaps, by the kindness, of teachers, absent her —
He does not flinch. To credit a life's learning in weapons and posture, back straight as Bichen's unyielding hilt, while blood gallops down on the parapet. It strikes him, not for the first time, that war has won him immunity to the visceral scent of flesh and its waters — that he watches the ground drink red, and feels no compulsion to cleanse it. ]
Where lies your mother?
[ Extracted, perhaps, from the conversation of the girl's rearing, if a teacher presided over her schooling instead. If not perished to indifference, or a sickness of the body. ]
no subject
He does not flinch. To credit a life's learning in weapons and posture, back straight as Bichen's unyielding hilt, while blood gallops down on the parapet. It strikes him, not for the first time, that war has won him immunity to the visceral scent of flesh and its waters — that he watches the ground drink red, and feels no compulsion to cleanse it. ]
Where lies your mother?
[ Extracted, perhaps, from the conversation of the girl's rearing, if a teacher presided over her schooling instead. If not perished to indifference, or a sickness of the body. ]