Beatrice was roaming the countryside, north of the encampment and southeast of Damascus, when she encountered the scene of a massacre. She combed through the bodies, and cringed when she realized they were her compatriots. Suddenly her heart leapt into her throat: Telos usually went on missions like this.
Oh God. What if he was dead? Beatrice screamed his name, pulling bodies off other bodies, searching hungrily for any sign of Telos. She did this for many minutes, and only after an hour did she realize it was probably better she hadn’t found him. But what if he had been kidnapped? That would be a huge blow to the resistance. God, why did she even care about the fucking resistance anymore!
Revenge… what a useless goal. Completely unsatisfying. Draining. Dehumanizing. This what they had all become–splashed blood and lifeless bodies across some rocks. The walls of Damascus loomed large in the background. Beatrice had let the city control her–no. She had controlled herself.
Come now, Beatrice. Don’t blame a place for what was your own desire. You were mad. So you killed. You killed them just like they killed your family.
We’re all even now, aren’t we?
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