Even while walls of heat whipped at our faces, Intralis and I found ourselves in a pocket of calm, spying the calamity rolled out before us. The moriah seemed to spit fire here and there, like a sun, hidden in the soil, was spraying flares into the sky. Silouhettes emerged and disappeared again. They swung swords from above their heads, from above depraved faces, soldiers losing themselves within the folds of the flames. Men and women raged at one other in the blindness of this burning monster. Yet, we were too calm, too carefree in the presence of two tumbling societies.
We did not feel disgust, we only knew it. We knew it like one knows a memory; we knew it like a poet who describes love, but is never silenced by it. We knew disgust, we knew sadness, and we readied ourselves for the fire.
"You said you wanted life," Intralis said, "its somewhere on the other side of this, somewhere after this, but not this."
With that he lifted the dagger from his waist and bound toward the flames.
I hope when the farmer reads my letters, I can describe fully the desolation of that moment.