Love and Death

“My own thoughts on the matter reflect a rather uncharitable view,” I said languidly. The shot hit the mark. The two ceased their bickering and glared evilly at me. I was always the peacemaker between them; for how much they despised each other, my counterpoints always drove them back together. It was the one delight I had after death.

“You both are working under the assumption that, at bottom, the general wants some good, that he wants anything that you can understand,” I continued. “You’re not human. You never were. I, as I keep reminding you, was.”

The little, reptilian troll shot out his forked tongue with a hiss:

“Still are,” he accused in that airy voice.

“Not by any human standard,” I reminded him. “The general, I think, has a rather perverse view of things. He wants revenge.”

“Revenge?” burped the slug-like succubus.

“We’ve never done anything to him,” snarled the troll.

“You forget,” I said, “that humans love—”

At that word, the two of them shuddered.

The troll spat.

“Lies!” he said.

“And you killed his daughter,” I added quickly. “Murdered his son-in-law. He could not hate you any more than if you had stolen his eyes or chopped off his hand. He will be a torment to you until the end of his days, and, because they are short, and he knows they are short, he will do everything in his power to destroy you before death comes.”

At the word death, the two shot their eyes nervously about the room.

“Yes, death,” I said, and they coward.