“You… have this one (the arms and legs)"…
"You, that one (the offal)"…
"… And you over there have that one beside you (the visceral but the heart). Who took the head? I need it back with the heart because there’s no better dinner tonight…”
That way, they sheared the king’s body into parts, selecting each part according to hierarchy and influence – an unusual spoil from a fierce battle.
Enmity is poison, everyone knows, but in the heat of war, morality remains theory. The kings of the south and the north have in ages past lived in utter hatred. A hatred that has sunk deep in the blood of their subjects, engraved in their hearts, and embossed on their minds; nothing seemed to bleach it out, but how it all began seemed to be forgotten for it was ages past when the smoke flamed and posterity kept fanning the embers, towing the part of their forefathers in all cluelessness.
And what is it good for? Absolutely nothing… yes, war. Yet the world lives for it, and for it they die, till no one lives to tell when the blood of men slain turns the sky blood-red.
