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He is half of my soul, as the poets say. He will be dead soon, and his honor is all that will remain.
Yet it does not feel like leisure. It feels like a held breath, like an eagle poised before the dive.
“I hope that Hector kills you.” The breath rasps in his throat. “Do you think I do not hope the same?” he asks.
“There are no bargains between lions and men. I will kill you and eat you raw.”
“Have you no more memories?” I am made of memories.
