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The thing is—The thing is kin-slaying is a big thing.
Not a small big thing either—stealing from someone, marrying a rival, falling from social grace, even straight-up killing someone; all of that falls leagues beneath kin slaying.
It is the sort of thing that is abhorrent, never spoken about and yet understood. It is—well, there’s really no describing such visceral horror at the action.
It curdles the blood. Settles in the bones. It is something that is seen, known. There is no atonement for it. No repentance, no asking forgiveness. The doors of heaven—yours, mine, his, hers—are closed to you forevermore.
But the question is this. If kin-slaying—a crime that shifts the air, warps the world like it has been proven to do, forces you to bear the weight of Atlas (and then some); if this act is so monstrous, then why do I not feel an ounce of shame?
Why—do I look at the blood on my hands, the corpse at my feet, and feel nothing at all?