Lion Head Mesa imprisonment

it was as his sister thought, then. they are mine, she answered, speaking in terms he would understand and perhaps could respect. what is mine is not for you to hunt or to kill. we do not hunt the fellahin, a word he would know well by now. he had not killed any here before—the Hemet had been intact, not touched by teeth hungry to eat.
will you hunt my fellahin again, when you are freed? will you seek to hurt my people? retribution, he might think of it as—but now he understood there would be a cost, and this time there had been mercy even if it did not feel that way—even to her! 
but she thought of what might have happened, had he not been captured. he might have come again and again and again, failing twice before he finally succeeded and it was @Tuna or @Eset or @Inji and her children betwixt those devouring jaws, screaming, suffering, no chance for the spark in their eyes to ever change from that bleak and cold flatness of death! and she felt that only this measured cruelty toward him would make him understand, make him truly listen, 
because the language he had first bent to was that of the body at its most savage and vicious. the man before her did not know the lessons he shared with her went far beyond the learning of their differing languages. she was grateful,
and she wanted badly for this next truth of his to show he had some shred of wisdom, and that it would be a truth that would set him free.