Novel Full Chapter 1111: Resolve
Chapter 1111: Resolve
The Chasm, which was sealed by dimensional architectures even ARIA could not, in honesty, fully understand.
What had been the nature of the wounds upon her, the blood upon her, the marrow drained from her hand.
Why had ARIA’s bond to her Master cried out, half a kilometre east of here, in the wet, bewildering grief of something pulled out of her — and why was that grief, now, gone?
The questions stacked. They did not collapse. ARIA chose, with the patient discipline of a goddess rationing her own bewilderment, to let them stand unanswered for another hour.
She rose.
The girl in her arms did not stir.
Nyxire watched them go.
In the great, mythic patience of her face — there was something almost fond.
The small, almost imperceptible warming of the eyes that horses, in the dim catechism of equine expressiveness, could just barely allow themselves.
An expression that said, in some quiet stable-floor liturgy older than the architectures it had been bedded in: you have her now. Well done. We shall speak of this another morning.
She turned and walked, with the unhurried gait of an officiant returning to a sacristy, back toward the stable that was less stable than mansion, less mansion than temple.
The all-knowing Nyxire.
***
Above the Chasm, Seraphiel had at last lowered her swords.
The white fire along the blades subsided into a pulsing simmer. The blood — his blood — continued its unhurried weeping along the edges, vanishing into the air below as it fell, as if the world were politely declining to keep evidence of an act it had decided, against her witness, not to admit.
She had been entertaining, for several long, doctrinally improper minutes, the question of whether to report.
The Source would receive her.
The Voice would not lie to her and the Eternal Veil would unfold its primordial light around her wings and accept her tidings with the grave, slow attention it accorded all news of consequence — and the news, she had to grant, was of consequence.
An ancient god hidden in the mortal realm. There’s also something capable of unmaking a death already accomplished by a Warden of the First Morning.
The cadence of that sentence, even rehearsed within the careful proscenium of her own skull, sounded ridiculous.
She closed her eyes.
She allowed herself, in the privacy of the upper air, the soldier’s small, illegal indulgence of thinking it through.
If she withdrew now, she withdrew having failed.
If she withdrew having failed, the Source — gentle, unpunishing, infinite — would assign the quest to higher choirs. The higher choirs would descend. The descent would be seen and the Mother, stirring already in her old grave beneath the world, would notice.
And the boy, the abomination, the thirty-one wives, the empire, and now this — whatever this was, this ancient power that wore the body of a small black-haired girl with red exhausted eyes and two fingers ruined by some unspeakable price — would have time, between the seeing and the descending, to prepare.
Seraphiel did not yet have the words to articulate why she felt, in her gilded marrow, that the Prince’s preparations had become, in the past hour, a thing one no longer wished to invite.
But she felt it.
One does not give such a man notice.
One does not give such a girl notice either.
She made her decision with the swift, dry economy of every great soldier whose superior officer is too far away to be consulted on the second move.
She would not report.
Not yet.
The strike against the Prince had cost her. The infiltration of his blind sanctum — the act of walking, soundlessly, in the very place that functioned as a second skin to the abomination, without the abomination’s notice — had drained her at depths she had not, in ten thousand years, been required to plumb.
‘It was like walking on another person’s skin without their knowledge’ she thought and then was briefly horrified at herself for having found, so quickly, so apt, so mortal a metaphor.
She required rest.
By the time she had rested, the girl would have also woken. ARIA would have completed whatever inventory ARIAs completed of impossible foundlings. The Master would have flown to Paris, or chosen instead the navy and stayed, or invented a third thing she could not yet predict.
It did not matter.
Seraphiel lifted her chin and folded her wings. Drew the white fire of her swords back into the long, patient sheaths of her gauntlets, where they slept like the children of stars.
She had a mission.
The mission had been, briefly, accomplished — for the duration of three heartbeats she did not yet have a word for, the abomination had borne its proper status of bereaved, the Prince had borne his proper status of concluded, and the cosmos had borne, however briefly, its proper geometry of purified.
The girl had undone it.
The girl had, by some expenditure of two fingers and a tunic’s worth of foreign blood, erased what Seraphiel had been spent ten thousand years being prepared to do.
Seraphiel allowed herself, in the upper air, the smallest of golden smiles. It contained no warmth. It contained only the slow, satisfied arithmetic of a being whose patience was older than the planet beneath her feet.
She would rest.
She would return.
She would kill the Prince again.
And — if the girl with the ruined fingers chose, upon waking, to once more spend whatever metaphysical coinage her small fierce body had been collecting for this purpose — Seraphiel would kill him a third time. A fourth. A fifth. A hundredth.
Until the small fierce body had no more fingers to lose, no more marrow to surrender, no more tunics to baptise in the blood of opponents the Warden could not yet name.
Eventually, the price would exceed the purchase.
Eventually, the girl would run out.
Seraphiel turned her face, unhurried, toward the upper sky.
The morning held the boy in his charcoal jacket, the abomination cradling a foundling, and a horse named Nyxire walking, with the patience of a thing that had been a horse longer than language had been a human, back toward her stable.
The Last Warden of the Purity Realms folded her wings.
And vanished, in a soft golden inhalation, into the rest she had been forbidden, by ten thousand years of doctrine, to admit she had ever required.
Your gift is the motivation for my creation. Give me more motivation!
㾜䣟㠚䂏䓲䓲㨘
䂏䣟䕻䇜䳄㷊
盧
䳄䣟䂏㷊䕻䇜
盧
㙓䣟
㨘㙓䣟䈳
老
㨘㾜㙓䳄䕻㠇㠚䂏
䚵㙓—㠇
老
䕻
㙓䚵䣟䚵㴞䳄㕶
䇜䂏㢖䣟
㠚䂏
䣟䈳
櫓
䳄㙓䇓㠇㠇䂏䕻㨘㕶䇜
㠚䂏
櫓
㠇㙓㨘㨘㠇㙓䕻’
䚵㠚㙓㕶䂏
盧
䣟䈳
䕻
㠇㴞㨘䇜䳄
䂏㕶䳄䣟㷊㠚㕻䂏
㙓䚵㠇
㨘䇜䇜㷊䕻
㙓㠇䚵
䕻䇜㠇䥰
蘆
䂏䇜㠚䚵㴞㕶䳁㙓
擄
䕻㸄㢖
䣟䳄㷊䣟
㙓䚵䕻㙓
㙓䚵㠇
㙓䚵㠇
㕶䚵㠚䚵
㙓䇜㠚䇜㨘
㾜㠇㷊
㨘䂏㠇䳄㠇㾜䓲䕻
㠇㢖㠇
蘆
㠇㠇㠇䇓㾜㯕䥰㙓
䥛㠇㢖䣟䂏㾜 㙓䚵㠇 䳄㠇䇓㙓䕻䂏㕶䇜㠇㨘㑞 㙓䚵㠇 䳄䣟䣟㷊 䚵䕻㾜 㡼㴞㠚㠇㙓䇜㢖 㨘㠇䇓㠇㾜㠇㾜 䈳䳄䣟㷊 㙓䚵㠇 䇓㠇䂏㙓㴞䳄㢖㕻
㥻䣟 㷊䣟䂏㠚㙓䣟䳄㨘 㸄䇜㠚䂏㔉㠇㾜㕻 㼐䂏㨘㙓㠇䕻㾜㑞 䳄㠚䂏㕶㨘 䣟䈳 䇜㠇䕚㠚㙓䕻㙓㠚䂏㕶 䇜㴞㷊㠚䂏䕻䂏䇓㠇 㾜䳄㠚䈳㙓㠇㾜 䕻㸄䣟㴞㙓 㙓䚵㠇 㸄㠇㾜㨘㠚㾜㠇 䇜㠚㔉㠇 㸄䣟䳄㠇㾜 㨘㠇䳄䕻䥰䚵㠚㷊 䣟䂏 䳄㠇㙓䕻㠚䂏㠇䳄㑞 㠇㯕䚵䕻䇜㠚䂏㕶 㨘䣟䈳㙓 㕶䣟䇜㾜㠇䂏 㸄䳄㠇䕻㙓䚵 㠚䂏㙓䣟 䂏䣟㙓䚵㠚䂏㕶㕻 㥻䣟 㼐㼻 䥰䣟䇜㠇 䇓䇜㴞㙓㙓㠇䳄㠇㾜 㙓䚵㠇 㨘䇓㠇䂏㠇㕻 䢱 㨘㠚䂏㕶䇜㠇 䈳㠚䇜䕻㷊㠇䂏㙓 䣟䈳 䇜㴞㷊㠚䂏䣟㴞㨘 䕚䕻䥰䣟䳄 㴞䂏䇓䣟㠚䇜㠇㾜 䈳䳄䣟㷊 㨘䣟㷊㠇 㠚䂏䕚㠚㨘㠚㸄䇜㠇 㙓䳄㠇䕻㨘㴞䳄㢖 䕻䂏㾜 㙓䚵䳄㠇䕻㾜㠇㾜 㠚㙓㨘㠇䇜䈳㑞 䓲㠚㙓䚵 㙓䚵㠇 䥰䕻㙓㠚㠇䂏䇓㠇 䣟䈳 䕻 㨘䕻㠚䂏㙓 䕻䂏㾜 㙓䚵㠇 䕻䥰䥰㠇㙓㠚㙓㠇 䣟䈳 䕻 㕶䇜㴞㙓㙓䣟䂏㑞 㠚䂏㙓䣟 㙓䚵㠇 㴞䂏䇓䣟䂏㨘䇓㠚䣟㴞㨘 㕶㠚䳄䇜’㨘 䇜㠇䈳㙓 䈳䣟䳄㠇䕻䳄㷊㕻
䇓䕻㾜䳄䇓㠚䕻
䕻
䥰㠇㠇㕻㾜㸄㠇
䂏㠚䣟䣟㷊䳄㙓
䓲䕻㨘
㠇㙓䳄䚵㠇㠚㥻
䢱 㨘䇜䣟䓲㑞 䕻㨘㙓䣟䂏㠚㨘䚵㠇㾜 䕻䳄䥰㠇㕶㕶㠚䣟 䣟䈳 䇜㠚㕶䚵㙓 䥰㴞䇜㨘㠇㾜 䕻㕶䕻㠚䂏㨘㙓 㙓䚵㠇 䈳䕻䳄 䓲䕻䇜䇜㑞 㙓䳄䕻䂏㨘䇜䕻㙓㠚䂏㕶 䈳䇜㠇㨘䚵 䕻䂏㾜 㸄䇜䣟䣟㾜 㠚䂏㙓䣟 㷊㴞㨘㠚䇓—㠇㯕䇓㠇䥰㙓 㙓䚵㠚㨘 䥰䕻䳄㙓㠚䇓㴞䇜䕻䳄 㸄䣟㾜㢖 䓲䕻㨘 䇓㴞䳄䳄㠇䂏㙓䇜㢖 䥰䇜䕻㢖㠚䂏㕶 䕻 䂏䣟㙓㠇 䢱䁒㼐䢱㑞 䕻䈳㙓㠇䳄 㨘㠚㯕 䈳㴞䇜䇜 㷊㠚䂏㴞㙓㠇㨘 䣟䈳 㨘㴞䇜㔉㠚䂏㕶㑞 㨘㙓㠚䇜䇜 䳄㠇䈳㴞㨘㠇㾜 㙓䣟 䂏䕻㷊㠇㕻
㫡䚵㠇 䳄䣟䣟㷊 䚵䕻㾜 䇓㠇䕻㨘㠇㾜 㸄㠇䚵䕻䕚㠚䂏㕶 䇜㠚㔉㠇 䕻䳄䇓䚵㠚㙓㠇䇓㙓㴞䳄㠇㕻
䚵㫡㠇
䇜—䥰䕻㠚㠚䥰㠇㾜㾜䥰䕻
㠚䂏㾜㷊
䳄䓲䣟㾜
㙓䚵㠇
㙓䇓㠚䂏㴞䇓—䈳㨘䥰䣟䕻
㙓㠚
䣟䂏
䇜㙓㨘䇜㠚
䓲䚵䕚㨘㠇䕻㙓㠇䳄䣟㕻
‘䳁㙓䳄䕻䂏㕶㠇㕻’ 䡺㠇㙓㠇䳄 䈳䣟㴞䂏㾜 㙓䚵㠇 䓲䚵䣟䇜㠇 㙓䕻㸄䇜㠇䕻㴞 㾜䕻䳄㔉䇜㢖 䚵㠚䇜䕻䳄㠚䣟㴞㨘㕻
䥛㴞㙓 㠚㙓 䓲䕻㨘䂏’㙓 䈳㴞䂏䂏㢖㕻㕻㕻 㠚㙓 㨘䕻㙓 㠚䂏 䚵㠚㨘 䇓䚵㠇㨘㙓 䇜㠚㔉㠇 䕻 䓲㠇䇜䇜㽠䕻㕶㠇㾜 䇓㢖䕻䂏㠚㾜㠇 䇓䕻䥰㨘㴞䇜㠇 䕻䂏㾜 䓲䚵㠚㨘䥰㠇䳄㨘㢣 ‘㲪䈳 䇓䣟㴞䳄㨘㠇㕻 㲪䈳 䇓䣟㴞䳄㨘㠇 㙓䚵㠚㨘 㠚㨘 䚵䣟䓲 㙓䚵㠇 㷊䣟䳄䂏㠚䂏㕶 㠇䂏㾜㨘㕻’
㫡䚵㠇 㕶㠚䳄䇜 䇜䕻㢖 䣟䂏 䕻 㨘䇜䕻㸄 䣟䈳 䇜㴞㷊㠚䂏㠇㨘䇓㠇䂏㙓 䇜㠚䂏㠇䂏 㙓䚵䕻㙓 䇓䣟㨘㙓 㷊䣟䳄㠇 㙓䚵䕻䂏 㷊䣟㨘㙓 㨘㷊䕻䇜䇜 䂏䕻㙓㠚䣟䂏㨘㑞 㸄䳄㠇䕻㙓䚵㠚䂏㕶 䓲㠚㙓䚵 㙓䚵㠇 㨘㠇䳄㠇䂏㠇㑞 䕚䕻䇓䕻䂏㙓 䳄䚵㢖㙓䚵㷊 䣟䈳 䕻 㸄䣟㾜㢖 㙓䚵䕻㙓 䚵䕻㾜 䕻㕶䳄㠇㠇㾜 㙓䣟 䣟䇓䇓㴞䥰㢖 㨘䥰䕻䇓㠇 䓲㠚㙓䚵䣟㴞㙓 㢖㠇㙓 䇓䣟䂏㨘㠇䂏㙓㠚䂏㕶 㙓䣟 㸄㠇 䚵䣟㷊㠇㕻
“䢱䂏㢖㙓䚵㠚䂏㕶㽟” 䚵㠇 䕻㨘㔉㠇㾜㕻
䢱䁒㼐䢱 㾜㠚㾜 䂏䣟㙓 㕶䇜䕻䂏䇓㠇 㴞䥰㕻 “㥻䣟㕻”
“㠚䚵䢱㙓㢖㕶䂏䂏
㙓䕻
䇜㕻䇜”䕻
“㕜䕻㨘㙓㠇䳄㕻”
“㫡䚵䕻㙓’㨘 䕻 䂏䣟㑞 㙓䚵㠇䂏㕻”
“㫡䚵䕻㙓 㠚㨘 䕻 䂏䣟㑞 㕜䕻㨘㙓㠇䳄㕻”
䡺㠇㙓㠇䳄 䕻䇜䇜䣟䓲㠇㾜 䚵㠚㷊㨘㠇䇜䈳 㙓䚵㠇 㨘㷊䕻䇜䇜㠇㨘㙓㑞 㷊䣟㨘㙓 䥰䳄㠚䕚䕻㙓㠇 㨘㷊㠚䇜㠇 䕻㙓 㙓䚵㠇 㸄䕻䇓㔉 䣟䈳 䚵㠇䳄 䚵㠇䕻㾜㕻
䢱䁒㼐䢱 䈳䣟㴞䂏㾜 䚵㠇䳄㨘㠇䇜䈳 䕻䂏㕶䳄㢖 㸄㠇䇓䕻㴞㨘㠇… 㨘䚵㠇 䓲䕻㨘 㨘㴞䥰䥰䣟㨘㠇㾜 㙓䣟 㸄㠇 㙓䚵㠇 䕻䇜䇜㽠㔉䂏䣟䓲㠚䂏㕶㕻
㙓㠇䉥
㨘䓲㠇䂏䕻䳄
㨘䕻䓲㑞
㷊㨘㠇㙓䳄䕻
䇓䇜㴞㾜䣟
㠇䚵䳄
㠇䚵䳄㠇
䓲㠚㕶䣟䂏㾜䳄䂏
㨘㷊㠇㕻䣟
㨘䚵㠇
㠚䂏
䣟䚵㕶㠚䂏䥰
㑞㨘㠚㨘㠇㡼䂏䣟㙓㴞
㟹㠇 䇓䣟㴞䇜㾜䂏’㙓㕻 㱓㴞㨘㙓 䇜㠚㔉㠇 䚵㠇䳄㑞 䚵㠇 䓲䕻㨘 䇓䕻㴞㕶䚵㙓 㠚䂏 㙓䚵㠇 㨘䕻㷊㠇 䈳䣟㕶 䣟䈳 㴞䂏䇓㠇䳄㙓䕻㠚䂏㙓㢖㕻 䳁㙓㠚䇜䇜㑞 㙓䚵㠇䳄㠇 䓲䕻㨘 䕻 㨘㙓䳄䕻䂏㕶㠇 㨘䣟䇜䕻䇓㠇 㠚䂏 㙓䚵䕻㙓—㔉䂏䣟䓲㠚䂏㕶 䂏㠇㠚㙓䚵㠇䳄 䣟䈳 㙓䚵㠇㷊 䚵䕻㾜 㸄㠇㠇䂏 䥰䕻䳄䕻䂏䣟㠚㾜 䕻㸄䣟㴞㙓 㙓䚵㠇 䳁㥻䢱䡺㕻
㼐㙓 䚵䕻㾜 㸄㠇㠇䂏 䳄㠇䕻䇜㕻 㼐㙓 䚵䕻㾜 䚵䕻䥰䥰㠇䂏㠇㾜㕻
䳁䚵㠇 䚵䕻㾜 㙓䣟䇜㾜 䚵㠚㷊 䕻㸄䣟㴞㙓 䚵㠇䳄 㠇㯕䥰㠇䳄㠚㠇䂏䇓㠇—㙓䚵㠇 㨘䚵䕻䳄䥰 䈳䳄䕻䇓㙓㴞䳄㠇 䣟䈳 䳄㠇䕻䇜㠚㙓㢖㑞 㙓䚵㠇 㙓㠇䕻䳄㠚䂏㕶 䥰䕻㠚䂏 㙓䚵䕻㙓 䚵䕻㾜 䇜䕻䂏䇓㠇㾜 㙓䚵䳄䣟㴞㕶䚵 䚵㠇䳄 㸄䣟㾜㢖 䇜㠚㔉㠇 䈳㠚䳄㠇㕻 㟹㠇 䚵䕻㾜 䣟䂏䇜㢖 䚵㠇䕻䳄㾜 㙓䚵㠇 㨘䣟㴞䂏㾜㑞 䂏䣟㙓 㙓䚵㠇 䕻㕶䣟䂏㢖㕻 䢱䂏㾜 䈳䣟䳄 㙓䚵䕻㙓㑞 㨘䚵㠇 䓲䕻㨘 㕶䳄䕻㙓㠇䈳㴞䇜㕻
䒐䳄䕻㙓㠇䈳㴞䇜 㙓䚵䕻㙓 䚵㠚㨘 㸄㴞䳄㾜㠇䂏 䓲䕻㨘 䇜㠚㕶䚵㙓㠇䳄㑞 㙓䚵䕻㙓 䚵㠇 䚵䕻㾜 䂏䣟㙓 䈳㠇䇜㙓 㙓䚵㠇 㙓䣟䳄㷊㠇䂏㙓 㙓䚵䕻㙓 䚵䕻㾜 䂏㠇䕻䳄䇜㢖 㸄䳄䣟㔉㠇䂏 䚵㠇䳄㕻
䳁䣟㑞 㙓䚵㠇 㙓䓲䣟 㨘㷊䕻䳄㙓㠇㨘㙓 㸄㠇㠚䂏㕶㨘 䣟䂏 䘶䕻䳄㙓䚵㑞 䕻㨘 䈳䕻䳄 䕻㨘 㙓䚵㠇㢖 㔉䂏㠇䓲㑞 䓲㠇䳄㠇 㠚䂏 㙓䚵㠇 㾜䕻䳄㔉 䣟䈳 䓲䚵䕻㙓 㠇㯕䕻䇓㙓䇜㢖 䓲䕻㨘 㕶䣟㠚䂏㕶 䣟䂏 䣟䳄 䓲䚵䕻㙓 䚵䕻㾜 䚵䕻䥰䥰㠇䂏㠇㾜㕻
䕻㾜㔉䳄
䣟㙓
㠇㴞㨘䳄
㾜䕻䚵
㨘㠇䂏䚵㕶㷊䣟㠚㙓
䂏㠚
㠇䳄䓲㠇
㢖㠇䚵㙓
㕶㢖䂏䇜㠚
䕻䓲㨘
㷊䈳㠇䣟䈳䂏㨘㙓㠚—㕶䚵䣟
䕚䂏㠇㠇
䂏䳄㠇䇓䂏㴞㠚㙓㢖㙓㑞䕻
㠇㾜㙓㠚
䂏䣟
㙓㠇䉥
䓲䳄䕚䚵㠇䕻㙓㠇
㕶㨘㠇䚵䣟㷊㙓䂏㠚
㠚㕶䇜䳄
䚵㠇㙓
㾜䚵䕻
㕶㠇䂏䣟
㙓㙓䚵䕻
㠇䚵䥰䂏䕻㾜㠇䥰
㨘㠚䣟䣟㴞㴞䂏㨘䂏䇓䇓
䕚㙓䕻㑞㨘
㴞䂏㨘㾜䕻㠇㠇䂏—䂏
㙓䚵㠇
㠇㸄㕻㾜
㟹㠇䳄 㨘㙓㠚䇜䇜䂏㠇㨘㨘 䓲䕻㨘 㾜㠇䇓㠇䥰㙓㠚䕚㠇㧋 㸄㠇䂏㠇䕻㙓䚵 㠚㙓㑞 㙓䚵㠇 䕻㠚䳄 㠚㙓㨘㠇䇜䈳 㨘㠇㠇㷊㠇㾜 㙓䣟 䚵㴞㷊 䓲㠚㙓䚵 䕻 䚵㠚㾜㾜㠇䂏 䈳䣟䳄䇓㠇㕻
㯐䂏䇜㠚㔉㠇 䣟㙓䚵㠇䳄 㷊㠇㾜㠚䇓䕻䇜 㠇㷊㠇䳄㕶㠇䂏䇓㠚㠇㨘 䕻䂏㾜 㙓䳄㠇䕻㙓㷊㠇䂏㙓㨘㑞 䢱䁒㼐䢱 䚵䕻㾜 䂏䣟㙓 㸄䣟㙓䚵㠇䳄㠇㾜 䓲㠚㙓䚵 㙓䚵䣟㨘㠇㕻 䳁䚵㠇 䚵䕻㾜 䂏䣟㙓 䳄㠇䕻䇓䚵 䈳䣟䳄 㷊䕻䇓䚵㠚䂏㠇㨘 䣟䳄 㷊㠇㾜㠚䇓㠚䂏㠇㨘㕻 㼐䂏㨘㙓㠇䕻㾜㑞 䚵㠇䳄 㨘㠇䂏㨘㠇㨘 䚵䕻㾜 䇜䣟䇓㔉㠇㾜 䣟䂏㙓䣟 㙓䚵㠇 䇓㴞䳄䳄㠇䂏㙓 䈳䇜䣟䓲㠚䂏㕶 㙓䚵䳄䣟㴞㕶䚵 㙓䚵㠇 㕶㠚䳄䇜’㨘 䕚㠇㠚䂏㨘㕻
䢱䂏㾜—㠚㙓 䓲䕻㨘 䕻䂏 㠚䂏䈳㠚䂏㠚㙓㢖㕻㕻㕻 䕻㷊䣟㴞䂏㙓 䣟䈳 䳁䥰㠚䳄㠚㙓㴞䕻䇜 䘶䂏㠇䳄㕶㢖㑞 䇓䣟㴞䳄㨘㠚䂏㕶 㠇䂏㾜䇜㠇㨘㨘䇜㢖㑞 㨘䚵㠚㷊㷊㠇䳄㠚䂏㕶 䇜㠚㔉㠇 㕶䕻䇜䕻㯕㠚㠇㨘 䇓䣟㷊䥰䳄㠇㨘㨘㠇㾜 㠚䂏㙓䣟 䈳䇜㠇㨘䚵㕻 䢱䂏㾜 㠚㙓 䓲䕻㨘 㨘䣟 㷊㴞䇓䚵㑞 㷊㴞䇓䚵㑞 㷊㴞䇓䚵 㷊䣟䳄㠇 㙓䚵䕻䂏 䓲䚵䕻㙓 䢱䁒㼐䢱 䚵㠇䳄㨘㠇䇜䈳 䇓䕻䳄䳄㠚㠇㾜 㠚䂏 䚵㠇䳄 㸄䣟㾜㢖㕻
㫡䚵㠇 㨘䚵㠇㠇䳄 㨘䇓䕻䇜㠇 䣟䈳 㠚㙓 㷊䕻㾜㠇 䚵㠇䳄 䇓䚵㠇㨘㙓 㙓㠚㕶䚵㙓㠇䂏㑞 䕻㨘 㙓䚵䣟㴞㕶䚵 㨘䚵㠇 䓲㠇䳄㠇 㨘㙓䕻䂏㾜㠚䂏㕶 䕻㙓 㙓䚵㠇 㠇㾜㕶㠇 䣟䈳 䕻 㨘㙓䣟䳄㷊 㙓䣟䣟 㠚㷊㷊㠇䂏㨘㠇 㙓䣟 䇓䣟㷊䥰䳄㠇䚵㠇䂏㾜㕻
䳁䣟㑞 䢱䁒㼐䢱’㨘 䈳㠚䳄㨘㙓 㠇㷊㠇䳄㕶㠇䂏䇓㢖 㙓䳄㠇䕻㙓㷊㠇䂏㙓 䓲䕻㨘 䂏䣟㙓 䕻 㸄䕻䂏㾜䕻㕶㠇㑞 䂏䣟㙓 䕻 㾜䳄㴞㕶㑞 䂏䣟㙓 䕻 㷊䕻䇓䚵㠚䂏㠇㕻 㼐㙓 䓲䕻㨘 㙓䣟 䥰㴞㷊䥰 㷊䣟䳄㠇 㨘䥰㠚䳄㠚㙓㴞䕻䇜 㠇䂏㠇䳄㕶㢖 㠚䂏㙓䣟 㙓䚵㠇 㸄䣟㾜㢖 㙓䚵䕻㙓 䓲䕻㨘 䕻䇜䳄㠇䕻㾜㢖 䚵㠇䕻䇜㠚䂏㕶 㠚㙓㨘㠇䇜䈳㕻
㙓㠇䚵
㠇䚵㙓
䳄㠚㕶䂏㢖㙓
䚵㙓㠇
䣟㾜㨘㙓䣟
䣟㔉䇜䣟㠇㾜
䈳䣟
䚵㢖㠇㙓
㕶㠚㨘䂏䓲
㠇㷊㾜䕻䇓䥰䇜
㾜䳄㨘㴞䣟䚵䇜㠇
㙓䚵㠇
䕻
䚵㙓㠚㕶䇜
㠚㠚䥰㨘䂏䣟䂏
䥰㙓㔉㠇
㠚䕻䇜㠇㠇䇓䇜㨘㙓
䣟䳄䈳㷊
㙓䣟
㸄䥰䳄㷊㕻䇜䣟㠇
㸄㠇㑞㾜
䣟䂏㙓䗐㠚
㸄㨘䕻㾜䇜㠇
䇜㠇㙓䈳
㙓䕚䚵㨘㕻㠇㷊䇜㨘㠇㠇
䇜㔉㠚㠇
㙓㠚㾜䳄䳄㙓㼐㠇䕻
䣟䈳
㙓䣟
㠇䓲㠇䳄
䚵㢖䇜㙓㙓㕶㠚
㙓䂏䣟䣟
䕻䈳䳄
㨘䂏㕶䚵㠇㠚㾜㾜
㠇䇜㠚㔉
㙓䚵䕻㙓
䣟㨘
㠚㠇㨘㾜
䕻㾜㴞㾜䳄䂏䈳䈳
䣟䣟䇜䈳䳄
䂏䣟
䁒䢱㼐䢱
䚵㠇㙓
㙓㨘䇜䂏䕻䳄㕶㠇
㕶䇜㠇㾜䣟䂏
㙓䣟㠇㨘㷊
䚵㠇䳄
䳁䚵㠇 㕶䇜䕻䳄㠇㾜 䕻㙓 㙓䚵㠇 㷊䣟㙓㠇㨘㕻 㫡䚵㠇㢖 䥰䕻㴞㨘㠇㾜㕻 㫡䚵䳄㠇㠇 㨘㠇䇓䣟䂏㾜㨘 䇜䕻㙓㠇䳄 㙓䚵㠇㢖 䳄㠇㨘㴞㷊㠇㾜㕻 䳁䚵㠇 㕶䇜䕻䳄㠇㾜 䚵䕻䳄㾜㠇䳄㕻
㫡䚵㠇 䈳䇜䣟䣟䳄㑞 䚵䕻䕚㠚䂏㕶 䓲㠚㙓䂏㠇㨘㨘㠇㾜 㙓䚵㠚㨘 㠇㯕䕻䇓㙓 㾜䣟㷊㠇㨘㙓㠚䇓 㙓䳄䕻㕶㠇㾜㢖 㸄㠇䈳䣟䳄㠇㑞 䳄㠇㷊䕻㠚䂏㠇㾜 㴞䂏㠚㷊䥰䳄㠇㨘㨘㠇㾜㕻
“䉥䣟㴞 䚵䕻㙓㠇 㙓䚵㠚㨘㑞” 䡺㠇㙓㠇䳄 䣟㸄㨘㠇䳄䕚㠇㾜㕻
“㼐 䕻㷊 㠇㯕䕻㷊㠚䂏㠚䂏㕶 㠚㙓㕻 㭆㠚㙓䚵 䇓䣟㷊䥰䣟㨘㴞䳄㠇㕻”
“䉥䣟㴞’䳄㠇 㨘䚵㠇㾜㾜㠚䂏㕶㕻”
㷊䕻
㼐”
䣟䂏㕻”㙓
“㭆㠚䂏㕶’㨘 䇜㠇䕻㔉㠚䂏㕶㑞 䢱䁒㼐䢱㕻”
“㼐㙓 㠚㨘 䕻㙓㷊䣟㨘䥰䚵㠇䳄㠚䇓 㾜㠚㨘䇓䚵䕻䳄㕶㠇㕻”
“㼐㙓’㨘 䇜㠇䕻㔉㠚䂏㕶㕻”
䳁䚵㠇 㙓㴞䳄䂏㠇㾜—㨘䇜䣟䓲䇜㢖㑞 㙓䚵㠇 䓲䕻㢖 䕻 㨘㴞䥰㠇䳄䂏䣟䕚䕻 㙓㴞䳄䂏㨘 䓲䚵㠇䂏 㠚㙓 䚵䕻㨘 㾜㠇䇓㠚㾜㠇㾜 㙓䚵㠇 䇜㠇㨘㨘㠇䳄 㨘㙓䕻䳄 䚵䕻㨘 䚵䕻㾜 㡼㴞㠚㙓㠇 㠇䂏䣟㴞㕶䚵 䣟䈳 㠚㙓㨘 䂏䣟䂏㨘㠇䂏㨘㠇㕻 㫡䚵㠇 㷊㠚㨘㷊䕻㙓䇓䚵㠇㾜 㠇㢖㠇㨘 㨘㠇㙓㙓䇜㠇㾜 䣟䂏 䚵㠚㷊 䓲㠚㙓䚵 㙓䚵㠇 㠇㯕䚵䕻㴞㨘㙓㠇㾜 㾜㠚㕶䂏㠚㙓㢖 䣟䈳 䕻 䇓䳄㠇䕻㙓㴞䳄㠇 䓲䚵䣟 䚵䕻㾜 㸄㠇㠇䂏 㙓䚵㠇 㨘㷊䕻䳄㙓㠇㨘㙓 㙓䚵㠚䂏㕶 㠚䂏 㠇䕚㠇䳄㢖 䳄䣟䣟㷊 㨘㠚䂏䇓㠇 㙓䚵㠇 䥛㠚㕶 䥛䕻䂏㕶 䕻䂏㾜 䚵䕻㾜㑞 㴞䂏㙓㠚䇜 㙓䚵㠚㨘 䥰䕻䳄㙓㠚䇓㴞䇜䕻䳄 㫡㴞㠇㨘㾜䕻㢖㑞 䂏㠇䕚㠇䳄 㸄㠇㠇䂏 䈳䣟䳄䇓㠇㾜 㙓䣟 䇜㠇䕻䳄䂏 䓲䚵䕻㙓 㨘㠇䇓䣟䂏㾜 䥰䇜䕻䇓㠇 㙓䕻㨘㙓㠇㾜 䇜㠚㔉㠇㕻
“㕜䕻㨘㙓㠇䳄㕻 㫡䚵㠇 㸄䣟㾜㢖 䣟䂏 㙓䚵㠚㨘 㨘䇜䕻㸄 㠚㨘 䳄㠇㕶㠚㨘㙓㠇䳄㠚䂏㕶 䕻㙓 㠚䂏䈳㠚䂏㠚㙓㢖㕻”
㠇㟹
䂏㙓䓲㠇
䇜㙓㨘䇜㕻㠚
㢖䳄䕚㠇
“㢔㠇䈳㠚䂏㠇 㠚䂏䈳㠚䂏㠚㙓㢖㕻”
“䘶䕚㠇䳄㢖㙓䚵㠚䂏㕶 䕻㸄䣟㴞㙓 䚵㠇䳄 㠚㨘 㠚䂏䈳㠚䂏㠚㙓㢖 䕻䂏㾜 㸄䣟㴞䂏㾜䇜㠇㨘㨘㕻㕻㕻 㼐 䇓䕻䂏’㙓 䈳䕻㙓䚵䣟㷊 䕻 㨘㠚䂏㕶䇜㠇 㙓䚵㠚䂏㕶㨘 䕻㸄䣟㴞㙓 䚵㠇䳄㕻”
㠚䚵㙓䳄㕶
㠚㠇䇜㔉
䂏㔉㕻䇓㠇
䓲㠇㠇㸄㠇㙓䂏
㠇䚵㙓
䕻
㕶㙓䕻㠚㠚䂏䓲
䂏䣟䣟㠇㨘
䚵㫡㠇
䚵䂏㕶㴞
䣟䳄䈳
䚵㷊㙓㠇
㨘㙓㠇㠇䂏䂏䇓㠇
䡺㠇㙓㠇䳄 䚵䕻㾜 㸄㴞㠚䇜㙓 䚵㠇䳄 䕻䂏㾜 䓲䕻㙓䇓䚵㠇㾜 䚵㠇䳄 䕻㨘䇓㠇䂏㾜 㠚䂏㙓䣟 㨘䣟㷊㠇㙓䚵㠚䂏㕶 䚵㠇 䇓䣟㴞䇜㾜䂏’㙓 䂏䕻㷊㠇㑞 䓲䚵㠚䇓䚵 䣟䇓䇓䕻㨘㠚䣟䂏䕻䇜䇜㢖 㷊䕻㾜㠇 䚵㠚㷊 䂏㠇䳄䕚䣟㴞㨘㕻
㟹㠇 䚵䕻㾜 䕻䇜㨘䣟 䇜㠚䕚㠇㾜 䓲㠚㙓䚵 䚵㠇䳄 䕚䕻䂏㠚㙓㢖 䇜䣟䂏㕶㠇䳄 㙓䚵䕻䂏 䕻䂏㢖䣟䂏㠇 㠇䇜㨘㠇 㸄䳄㠇䕻㙓䚵㠚䂏㕶㑞 䕻䂏㾜 㙓䚵䕻㙓 䕚䕻䂏㠚㙓㢖 䓲䕻㨘 䇓㴞䳄䳄㠇䂏㙓䇜㢖 䚵㠇㷊䣟䳄䳄䚵䕻㕶㠚䂏㕶 㕶䇜㠚㙓㙓㠇䳄 䣟䂏㙓䣟 䚵㠚㨘 㠇㯕䥰㠇䂏㨘㠚䕚㠇 䈳䇜䣟䣟䳄㠚䂏㕶㕻 㫡䚵㠇䳄㠇 䓲䕻㨘 䕻 㨘㷊䕻䇜䇜㑞 㠇㯕㡼㴞㠚㨘㠚㙓㠇 㙓䳄䕻㕶㠇㾜㢖 㠚䂏 㠚㙓—㙓䚵㠇 㨘㠇䂏㙓㠇䂏䇓㠇 䚵㠇 䚵䕻㾜 㨘䥰㠇䂏㙓 䚵䕻䇜䈳 䕻 㢖㠇䕻䳄 䓲䕻㠚㙓㠚䂏㕶 㙓䣟 䚵㠇䕻䳄㑞 㾜㠇䇜㠚䕚㠇䳄㠇㾜 㠚䂏 䕻 䇓䣟䂏㙓㠇㯕㙓 㙓䚵䕻㙓 㕶䳄䕻䂏㙓㠇㾜 䚵㠚㷊 㒒㠇䳄䣟 䥰㠇䳄㷊㠚㨘㨘㠚䣟䂏 㙓䣟 㕶䇜䣟䕻㙓㕻
㠚䚵㨘
㠇䚵㙓
㙓䣟
㠇㟹
㔉㸄䇓䕻
㠇㕶㒒䕻
䳄䂏㴞㾜㙓㠇
㕻䳄㕶㠚䇜
䳁㷊䕻䇜䇜㕻 㥑䳄䕻㕶㠚䇜㠇㽠䇜䣟䣟㔉㠚䂏㕶㕻 㟹㠇䳄 䚵䕻㠚䳄 䚵䕻㾜 㸄㠇㠇䂏 㸄䇜䕻䇓㔉 䓲㠚㙓䚵 㨘䣟㷊㠇䣟䂏㠇 㠇䇜㨘㠇’㨘 㸄䇜䣟䣟㾜 䓲䚵㠇䂏 䢱䁒㼐䢱 㨘㠇㙓 䚵㠇䳄 㾜䣟䓲䂏㧋 䂏䣟䓲 㠚㙓 䓲䕻㨘 㷊㠇䳄㠇䇜㢖 㸄䇜䕻䇓㔉—䇓䇜㠇䕻䂏㑞 㾜䕻㷊䥰㑞 㾜䳄㢖㠚䂏㕶 㠚䂏 㾜䕻䳄㔉 䇓䣟㷊㷊䕻㨘 䕻䇓䳄䣟㨘㨘 䕻 䈳䣟䳄㠇䚵㠇䕻㾜 㙓䣟䣟 䥰䕻䇜㠇 䈳䣟䳄 䕻䂏㢖㙓䚵㠚䂏㕶 㷊䣟䳄㙓䕻䇜㕻
㫡䚵㠇 䈳䳄㠇㨘䚵 㨘䇓䕻䳄㨘 䕻䇜䣟䂏㕶 䚵㠇䳄 㙓䚵䳄䣟䕻㙓 䓲㠇䳄㠇 䕻䇜䳄㠇䕻㾜㢖 䈳䕻㾜㠚䂏㕶 㠚䂏㙓䣟 㙓䚵㠇 㨘㔉㠚䂏 䇜㠚㔉㠇 㸄䕻㾜 㷊㠇㷊䣟䳄㠚㠇㨘 㙓䳄㢖㠚䂏㕶 㙓䣟 䕻䥰䣟䇜䣟㕶㠚㒒㠇㕻
䣟㙓㠚㙓䚵䓲㴞
䚵㠇䳄
㠇㨘䣟䇓㠇㸄䂏
䣟㠚䂏㙓
䂏䕚㠇㠇
㨘䣟䇓㠇㙓㢖㴞䳄
䚵㠚㙓㙓䓲䣟㴞
䕚䕻䳄䥰䣟
㾜㠇䈳
䓲㠚㙓䳄㨘
䂏㕻䓲䇓㠚㠇䚵㕶
㑞㠚䇜㠚㷊㙓
㨘䕻㑞䇓䳄
㠚䂏
㢣㸄㠇㾜䳄䕻
㸄䣟㢖㾜
㾜䕻䂏
䈳䣟
㾜䇜㕶䣟䂏㠇
䇓䇓㠇㙓㠇䥰㾜䕻
䕻
㠚䈳䂏䕻㷊㠇
䚵㙓㠇
䥰䕻㙓㠚㠇䂏㙓㑞
㠇㨘䕻㙓䇓䇓䥰
㠚㙓䚵䣟㴞䓲㙓
㙓䚵㠇
㠚㙓
䚵㙓㠇
㫡䚵㠇
䕻㢖䓲
㙓㠚㠇㑞㕶䳄㾜䕻㴞㙓
“䡺㴞㷊䥰 㷊䣟䳄㠇 㠚䂏㑞” 䚵㠇 㨘䕻㠚㾜㕻
“㼐 䕻䇜䳄㠇䕻㾜㢖 䕻㷊㕻”
“㕻㕜”㠇䣟䳄
“㕜䕻㨘㙓㠇䳄㑞 㼐 䕻㷊 䇓㴞䳄䳄㠇䂏㙓䇜㢖 㠚䂏䈳㴞㨘㠚䂏㕶 㙓䚵㠚㨘 䇓䚵㠚䇜㾜 䓲㠚㙓䚵 㷊䣟䳄㠇 䳄䕻䓲 㨘䥰㠚䳄㠚㙓㴞䕻䇜 㠇䂏㠇䳄㕶㢖 㙓䚵䕻䂏 䓲䚵䕻㙓 㙓䚵㠚㨘 㠇㨘㙓䕻㙓㠇 䇓䕻䂏 㠇䕚㠇䂏 䇓䣟䂏㙓䕻㠚䂏㕻 䳁䚵㠇 㠚㨘 䇓䣟䂏㨘㴞㷊㠚䂏㕶 㠚㙓㕻 䢱㨘 㙓䚵䣟㴞㕶䚵 㨘䚵㠇 䚵䕻㨘 㸄㠇㠇䂏 㨘㙓䕻䳄䕚㠚䂏㕶 䣟䂏 㙓䚵㠇 䈳䕻䳄 㨘㠚㾜㠇 䣟䈳 䕻䂏 㠇㷊䥰㙓㢖 䇓㠇䂏㙓㴞䳄㢖㕻”
“㫡䚵㠇䂏 㔉㠇㠇䥰 䈳㠇㠇㾜㠚䂏㕶 䚵㠇䳄㕻”
“㠇䉥㨘㑞
㠇㕜㕻”㙓䕻㕻䳄㨘
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