His brother, K'thalen. K'ile could recall the man's silhouette cast against an otherworldly horizon made of fire and smoke. He could see it when he closed his eyes and glanced upward; it was etched upon the roof of his skull. There his brother, the tribe's greatest Nunh, stood dying beside a collage of other such images. Some he had names for, many he did not, and while he felt his head overflowing with images of death still there was a mad artist scrabbling along the cracks that battle had left in his mind, and each time K'ile looked the devilish mural had expanded.
He didn't even look for the words to answer K'piru's question. K'ile had gone to war with K'piru's Nunh, and he daughters, and he had come back without them. Couldn't she read what the battle had written into his wounds? Couldn't she feel the way he held her, now, so different than he'd ever touched anyone before? The way she had leaned into him at first, shook freely beneath him, had made him think that she did, but now, maybe not.
Swallowing the air the hung about Antimony, one as much of death as it was of the only hope and connection he had left, K'ile said, "They aren't here." It was the simplest observation he'd ever uttered, but the only thing he could have said.
He didn't even look for the words to answer K'piru's question. K'ile had gone to war with K'piru's Nunh, and he daughters, and he had come back without them. Couldn't she read what the battle had written into his wounds? Couldn't she feel the way he held her, now, so different than he'd ever touched anyone before? The way she had leaned into him at first, shook freely beneath him, had made him think that she did, but now, maybe not.
Swallowing the air the hung about Antimony, one as much of death as it was of the only hope and connection he had left, K'ile said, "They aren't here." It was the simplest observation he'd ever uttered, but the only thing he could have said.
![[Image: Collage_banner.png]](https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/u/179079766/Collage_banner.png)
