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But humans never stood up for the right thing. They stood around feeling uncomfortable, and later pretended that feeling uncomfortable meant they were virtuous.
If humans got used to the presence of gods, they’d probably hunt them for profit and glory and other nonsense, just as they did to monsters. Gods were smart to keep a light touch.
Never had she imagined such a thing. Humans were so creative in their disappointments.
Being burned was a weakness of hers, insofar as it was a weakness of every living thing she’d met. You could roast a sheep or a human on a fire and nobody called that their “weakness.” Having fire thrust into their eye sockets was a threat to them. Weaknesses were a human invention. They called it your weakness if they fantasized about murdering you with it.
Romance was awful. She couldn’t even do something as simple as murdering rude people anymore.
“Leave this,” Homily said, pinching the folds of the scarf closed beneath her chin.
Girl this is not the girl with the green scarf story. Get out.
“This is Epigram Wulfyre. My next youngest sister.”
No.
Shesheshen never trusted deliberate smoke. Humans were seldom up to anything good when they burned things on purpose.
The testicles on the Engmarese war banner
Oh!
She wasn’t kind because of some angelic virtue. It was insecurity. It was an adaptation to cruelty. Shesheshen wrapped her arms around Homily and held her to her chest for a moment, mourning the realization that she’d fallen in love with someone’s pain.
This was the same mistake so many humans made: believing someone would leap over trauma when it hurt them badly enough. That wasn’t how it worked, and the monster knew it. All Shesheshen could do for Homily was be patient with her, and make space for her, and eventually, one day behind her back, eat her mother.
