(Samir)

A constant crying from the right, and a low laughter to the left.
Blood spurts once more over my face, and onto the grass beneath me.
I lay prostrate upon the fields. So many leagues away from me lays the few lights of the village.
Right beside me lays the hand of my brother.
Just a hand. A very bloody hand, without an arm.

"Samir..." the voice is softly whispered, and with such softness I awaken to the sound of a stirring household. Steps shuffle in the next room. The low voice of my father, speaking with a Melchorite priest, sound in the hall outside my room.

"Samir, Samir... here, lemme help you sweety," that same soft voice again, a voice so stretched and sad compared to the happy tone which used to be carried by my mother. I wonder, how has my own voice changed? I cannot tell. She helps me put my boots on, gathers my cloak about me, and kisses the cloth wrapping my head.

"It's time. They're gunna... burn..." she doesn't finish, and I can hear her move away to the far wall before she comes back and helps me up. I remain silent, and we move out the hall. Speech from my father, questions asked about my health. I shrug them off. The priest speaks out, telling me about my part in the ceremony, and how that if at any time I should feel uneasy that I have but just to speak out and people will help me. He tells me how brave I am for coming to the burning so soon after the trauma.

My mother leads me outside. I feel the chilly breeze on my face, and rain begins to fall on my face. It is Darkfall, and darkness has truly fallen for I can see nothing. I reach up a hand habitually and toy with the headwrap which conceals my face, the bandages which are caked with blood. The soft hiccuping of my mother at my side stirs my arm. She is crying.

It is the morning of my brother's funeral. As is custom, he is to be set on a funeral pyre... except the only part of his body that could be found were his severed hands.