"Do not pray for an easy life. Pray for the strength to endure a difficult one."
-Bruce Lee

Myra finished wrapping bandages around the man's leg. A deflected strike that hadn't killed him, but had gotten him in the thigh. With so many refugees, they had more skilled workers in the capitol. More blacksmiths, so they could actually double as armorers. It was a slow process, but soldiers were more protected when they went out there now, so the injuries had been less.

Well, minus the times that the humans used that Cannon of theirs. Thor's Hammer, people were calling it, after a hero from old human stories. It was horribly destructive, ripping through the landscape for miles across. Myra had seen plenty of patients lose limbs to the Cannon, if they were lucky.

She stood, gathering the old bandages to throw them out and was surprised to see Alstan sitting on the porch. They hadn't spoken outside of a professional manner since their conversation in her room—a conversation that she still hadn't quite forgiven him for. Sighing, she tossed the bandages into their box of garbage before going to stand on the porch.

"What is it?" Myra asked shortly, folding her arms across her chest.

"I came to say a few things."

"Then say them and be done with you. I'm busy."

Alstan glanced inside the clinic. Decently quiet, except for the occasional groans of pain as people moved the wrong way. "Yes, I can see that. First off, I wanted to apologize. For what I said earlier and for what I'm about to say. I shouldn't bring it up, but I need to say it."

Her muscles tightened, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Then you should keep your mouth shut and go back to…whatever you were doing."

Alstan ignored her. "Do you remember the first time we met?"

That threw her off guard. "What?"

He repeated the question.

"Yes? It was at the university in Heimdall. I had just finished a course and I was celebrating with—" With her husband, though he was her fiancée at the time. "You spilled a drink on me."

"Yeah." It had been a long time ago. He'd been finishing up his degree in Magical Warfare, preparing to go with the elven armies in keeping their borders in check because the war was getting very close to them. He could join as a strategist, so he was still involved, but off the front lines. That had been his plan at the time, anyway.

"You were…pretty drunk at the time. So when I told you to apologize, you didn't and the two of you got in a fight. You won."

Alstan's lips curved a little in a remembering smile. "…Yeah. Callisto could never fight worth a damn. Do you remember that one winter—"

"Where we were snowed in?" Myra moved to sit beside him, just outside of arms' reach. She wrapped herself around her knees. "And you almost set us on fire because your warming spell went wrong?"

"That was me, wasn't it?"

"Mmhm."

"And Cal had the bright idea to try and go outside once the storm was over?"

Myra hummed in her throat. "We found him passed out in the snow. We thought he was dead and when we managed to warm him up, the first thing he asked was where the hot chocolate was."

"Cal was a piece of work, that's for sure." Alstan folded and unfolded his hands together. "…I was surprised. When he asked me to be the best man." Myra stayed silent, listening. "I thought—surely we're not that close. We had only met, what, a year or so ago? There had to be other people, people better qualified. But…he was always like that. Drawing people to him. He was easy to love."

Alstan looked over to Myra, who was resolutely looking at her knees. She looked younger like this, more like the young woman from his memories. "I know you don't remember—you had it so much worse than I did—but after Cal died, I kind of…fell apart a little. I didn't know what to do and all I could remember was watching from the wagon as the bombs fell. And then I found you. All I could picture was Cal, in that fire. Underneath that building."

Her fists clenched. "Shut up."

"No, listen to me, Myra. For years, that's all I could remember of him. Was his body. Was who he'd left behind. But I got so damn tired. I got so tired of remembering it that way. Cal was a great man. A good father, a good husband, my best friend. How could I remember him so badly?" He paused. "I needed to learn to forgive. And so do you."

Her eyes flashed. "I don't need to forgive Cal. He was—" Wonderful. Her partner, her husband, her lover, her confidant. Everything.

"Not Cal. You need to forgive yourself. Forgive yourself for not making it in time, for not knowing enough to save them. Stop punishing yourself like this." He reached out, slowly, and took one of her hands, dry and calloused. "Forgiving's not easy. It'll hurt. It'll probably hurt worse than losing him did, but please, do it. Life's too harsh a sentence to punish yourself with."

Myra took her hand back and, without a word, walked away.

"Yuan?"

The half-elf glanced up across the table where Kratos was playing with his soup. "Hm?"

"Were you ever taught…anything? About your history?"

"I was taught the same things you were, remember? We were both there." Granted, his education had come from Kratos' textbooks and notes, but the point still stood.

Kratos shook his head. "No. Not human history. Yours. Half-elves'."

Yuan set down his spoon. "What are you talking about?"

"We know human history is flawed and propagandist. They've had humans believing that we're the superior species for centuries because of those lies. Half-elves are portrayed as…savage and barbaric and the only reason the war is happening is because when the humans went to half-elven lands to 'spread the light of civilization', the half-elves refused and fought back. But I've never heard of any half-elven version of history. I've heard your stories, but that's not quite it."

Yuan looked down at his soup, almost gone, the last dredges of tomato and broth that he'd traded Kratos his potatoes for clumping at the bottom. "I know we used to be more. More than what we are now. Back home there was—was this wall. A wall of newspaper clippings." Yuan had never told anyone about the Wall. About the photos, either. "We could never read it. Any of us, but the whole wall was covered with them. The photographs were all of the war, we knew that. And a lot of the times, they tried to collect the obituary pages, with the pictures of people they lost. Or articles where people were framed like heroes.

"Knowing what I know now," Yuan said slowly. "The newspapers were all old. Yellowed and faded. Worn thinner than tissue. There hasn't been a printing press in half-elven hands for Spirits knows how long. To be honest, I have no idea. All I've got is those stories."

Martel was surprised when Kratos found her at the herb garden that she'd begun right outside the clinic. It was easier than having to run to the fields outside the capitol every time they needed more supplies. Not that all the herbs they needed could grow here; not enough sunlight, sometimes, or enough rain, but they could get enough that it made the job easier.

She was kneeling among the little sprouts, pulling weeds when he came and knelt a few feet away from her. She knew him well enough by now to know there was something on his mind. "What is it, Kratos?"

He began pulling weeds as well, leaving the pile in his lap. "This might be a…kind of a sensitive question," he warned.

Martel set her hands in her lap, wary, but allowing the question.

"What—what do you remember learning about history? You were taught it by the elves, right?"

The question surprised Martel, not only because of its content, but because of who was asking. Kratos tended to mind his own business; if people shared with him, he would listen, but he wouldn't usually go digging like this. (The most surprising part is the way the question doesn't hurt like he'd thought it would, like she had been almost certain it would. Has she come far enough that thinking of Heimdall doesn't hurt?)

"Um, yes. I—are you looking for a specific part of history?"

"I was thinking the other day that…that if I'm going to teach those kids, they should know their history. The real version, not the kind that the humans made up. And then I realized, I don't know your history. And—I asked Yuan, but…" He trailed off, not entirely sure if Yuan had told Martel about his wall of newspapers. It was harder, these days, to know what was Yuan-and-Kratos and what wasn't.

"Well, the elves have their own version, but the Storyteller…he records history as it is. It's tradition. The elves can teach what they will, but the Storyteller always has the truth."

(A cynical part of Kratos wants to argue. How do you know that the Storyteller is actually telling the truth? But that's not helpful, so he shoves that voice back down)

"What's the history you remember?"

"About the war? Not much. The elves…they like to pretend it's not happening. That it doesn't affect them. It wasn't like that at the beginning though. When the humans bombed one of our cities, the elves retaliated." Martel's eyes stayed on the moist ground. It had rained last night. The squishy soil reminded her of Heimdall, of its swampy ground and humid air. "Apparently, the elves' retaliation was so terrible, the humans haven't attacked since."

Kratos hummed in thought. "There isn't much mention of the elves in human history either. It's like they have some…unspoken agreement. I know the retaliation you're talking about though. It's mentioned, in our history books. The Bowten Massacre, it's called." Martel arched an eyebrow at him for the name. Kratos just shrugged. "The way the humans tell it, the elves sent a great mage to attack with meteors. The town of Bowten doesn't even exist anymore. Just rubble and ash. There are two memorials for the people of Bowten; one where the town used to be and one in the capital somewhere. Supposedly, the humans managed to push the elves back into their lands so they wouldn't attack us again. And they haven't."

"Painting themselves as the victims to justify it?" Martel snorted. "That's not surprising." She shifted so she wasn't kneeling anymore; her knees hurt from being in that position for so long.

"They don't have any history of half-elves either, do they? The elves?"

Martel shook her head. "No. If they did, it was burned."

Kratos' eyebrows hit his hairline. "Burned?" He'd seen a lot of horrible things, but the thought of burning knowledge twisted something in his ribcage.

Her smile was a bitter, edgy thing that didn't belong on her face. (Martel is so kind and so warm that she makes it very easy to forget that she's a child of war, a protective mother and sister who'd hidden from the elves in their own forest, who'd faced down monsters, both person-shaped and not. Kratos has no doubt that, if pushed, Martel will do almost anything for the people she loves) "They got around to believing we were abominations. Inferior beings. They wanted to erase us. So they burned our houses, our paintings. Our families, our stories. Anything that was half-elven in Heimdall, it's gone."

Kratos didn't know what to say. Apologies meant nothing; words couldn't heal what had been done to her, to them. "I don't want to apologize," he told her and he hoped she understood what she meant.

The strange smile slipped off her face. "You don't have to. None of that was your fault." She pinched the bridge of her nose. "I'm sorry, though. For heaping that on you. I—I thought I'd put it behind me."

Kratos made an abortive movement to reach out, like he wanted to touch or hold her, but thought better of it. "I think that…there is no putting something like that behind you. You can't let those memories fade, no matter how much it hurts, because once you do that, once you forget that pain and that anger, they win. They've erased the person you were."

(She both wants to hug him, and doesn't, all at the same time. Kratos has this instinctive understanding of people, even if he doesn't know what to do with the information. She loves him for that. She had almost been part of those ashes, once. Her and Mithos both. They would have joined their family house when the elves came for them, little more than char and smoke in the wind. They'd run, though. Martel had taken her little brother and run until their legs shook, until they hadn't been able to stand anymore and then she'd hidden them in a tree, waiting for the elven scouts to find them, waiting for their death to come. Sometimes, Martel feels like she's still in that tree, waiting, but now she has more people to love and worry about, more people whose deaths can break her. It's a burden she's happy to bear; she can't imagine life without them anymore)

Martel was surprised to see Abernac stepping through the door of her clinic. There were no new injuries that she could see on his person. She nodded to him in acknowledgment before finishing up with the patient in front of her. She soothed the irritated skin—even with healing magic, wounds from the Mana Cannon were a nasty piece of work—and let her mana sink beneath the top layer to heal the damage from the inside out.

"Alright," she said, bandaging up the arm. What was left of it, at least. "Keep this covered and make sure to put this on, morning and night." She gave the man a small jar of salve. "I'll see you again in three days."

Martel could feel Abernac's eyes on her as she cleaned off her work area. "Can I help you?"

"It's incredible," Abernac said. "Your magic—it can do things that I would have called impossible."

"Why are you here?" Martel winced a little. "Sorry. Didn't mean to snap. It's been a long day."

(Her patience astounds him. She has to deal with missing limbs and traumatized patients every day and she still greets them with a smile, still treats each of them with energy)

"I-I wanted to ask you about something."

"I'm listening."

"Your magic—" He hesitated, fist clenching in his pant leg. "Can it heal my leg?"

"Honestly? I don't know." Martel managed a tired smile. "But I can give it a look."

Abernac stayed as still as he could, her fingers probing the muscle of his thigh, bending his knee, murmuring a low spell to change the density of his bones, or so she explained calmly as she did each step.

"What's the damage?" he asked.

"Your bones healed correctly and they're set in the proper position," Martel said, pushing her bangs from her face. "But they weren't given time to finish healing. They're too thin to keep you standing for too long." She opened a notebook she'd taken to keeping of her patients. "How long can you be on your feet before the pain starts?"

"Couple of hours. Maybe."

Martel hummed. "Good days and bad days?"

"Just like anything in life. How did you know there was pain?"

Her eyes flicked up to his. "It's my job to know. How bad is the pain, usually? On a scale from one to ten?"

"Most days, about a six, if I'm not careful. On good days, maybe a four."

"And bad days?" she asked softly.

"Agonizing. There's no stopping it, no making it better. I can't even get out of bed." (His wife used to help. She hadn't soothed the pain, but it had been easier to bear. Now, he lays there in his cold, foreign bed, forcing the pain back)

"I see." Martel appeared unfazed by the news. Then again, she probably heard worse on a daily basis. "I can't guarantee anything, but there are some therapies and healing techniques that I can do to help it along. I don't think it will be able to be at a hundred percent ever again, to be honest, but I can help you get closer to it."

"Please. I-I don't want to feel useless anymore." He'd done as Kratos suggested and had been helping teach swordsmanship and—in particular—axmanship, but he needed to be back in the field, on the front lines. There was an itch beneath his skin he couldn't get rid of.

She nodded. "Okay." She ripped a piece of paper out of her notebook. "I'm going to give you a set of exercises to try. I want to see how much you can do." Her eyes steeled. "And do not even think of overexerting yourself."

"Yes, ma'am."

The four of them were called into a meeting late in the afternoon. At some point, they'd become an unofficial part of the war council. Viren was there, as well as Lyrion, Myra and Alstan.

"What's going on?" Mithos asked.

"I was reviewing the map. There's a human city here," Viren pointed on the map. "About twenty miles from one of our bases. My understanding is that it's a very large human city. Therefore, it has plenty of resources for us and it's a good strategic point."

"You want to take the city?" Yuan repeated.

Kratos had to squint to make out the scratchy writing on the map. It took him a moment to reconcile it with the maps he'd had to study in his childhood. "Ravenatele?"

"Do you know something about that city?" Lyrion asked.

"You're right. It is a large city. Second only to the capital. According to our history books, when the human empire was larger and spanned for most of the continent, they built a second city, dividing the empire into east and west territories, with a capital on each end. Ravenatele was the capital of the west."

"Any information more modern than that?"

Kratos struggled to remember what he'd been taught. "…It wasn't originally intended to be a fortress. There are walls and such surrounding it now, but it wasn't always that way. There's an old part of the city, closer to the center. It was originally built in the center of the valley, but over the years it's expanded. They built it up instead of out; its infrastructure is built around aqueducts that bring the city's water from the mountains."

Alstan stepped forward. "The information's not great, but it's more than we had. Viren's right about one thing: Ravenatele isn't far from our army. If we can take it, it'll be a great asset."

"We also would have to be able to keep the damn city," Myra added. "We can take that city from here 'til judgment day, but if we can't hold it, it'll end up being a slaughter. The humans know their city, they know the area. If we let them escape, they can easily bring back reinforcements. And our numbers aren't great either, particularly not after that last shot from the Mana Cannon. We'd have to take a great number from here and the surrounding area just to be able to make an attempt."

"You said it's in a valley?" Mithos asked.

Kratos nodded.

"If we can take the city, Gnome's power can help us hold it. I can use it to build better defenses, and maybe even change the ground we work on. A valley is plenty defendable, but there's always vulnerable points."

"You're going to need a more concrete plan," Viren told him, "But it's a start. There's no room for ifs and maybes if we go for this. It's going to be a high-risk situation, but with a high gain as well."

"I'll see what I can find about the city," Kratos said. "It has a long history, but it's been a long time since it's been taken in a military campaign."

"I expect a report in two days," Lyrion said. Since Zaren had been revealed as a traitor, Lyrion had been a bit more civil to all four of them, even if he was still rather cold. "Our informants should return by then and we will make a more solid plan."

"Yessir."

Alstan leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, taking in the sight of a classroom still under construction. There was glass in the windows, and the floors had been swept of debris. Kratos sat cross-legged on the floor, a small stack of books surrounding him, a notepad on his knee. His hair was swept up under a bandana, too-long hair tucked into a short tail at the nape of his neck; the rainy part of summer was over, but the heat was still powerful.

"So. The rumors are true." Kratos' head flew up, almost guiltily, like a child caught with his hands in a cookie jar. "I'd heard you were trying to start a school, but—this isn't what I pictured."

"These kids deserve to learn," Kratos said, not quite meeting Alstan's eyes. (It is a learned thing, the idea that he should be ashamed of his love of learning. Alstan wants to hate Sandor Aurion for ever teaching Kratos that lesson. Death is something too good for him, Alstan thinks viciously, and then he's surprised by the thought. He's usually not that venomous) "And adults too, if they want. There's been so much lost and destroyed already; I want to help preserve what I can, before it's gone forever."

Alstan smiled faintly, pulling up one of the wooden benches from beneath a desk. "It's a noble goal." Kratos was, at his core, a gentle soul. He had the skills, heart, and mind of a warrior, but he'd been meant for peace.

"…May I ask you something?"

"I don't think I could stop you."

One of Kratos' fingers played absentmindedly with a corner of the notepad. "Why did you choose to join the war? I don't understand the benefit for an elf."

"You don't think I did out of the goodness of my own heart?"

"It's a possibility. But you've said it yourself that you used to believe, like most elves do, that they aren't part of this war. So what changed?"

Kratos had asked him a similar question, back in the military school. Alstan didn't remember how he'd responded; more than likely, he'd just brushed it away. But he didn't want to do that this time. Kratos deserved a proper answer.

"I'm a fourth son. Among elves—like with humans—it gives me little standing in society. My eldest brother inherited the family property, outside the city of Cellim. The second eldest married into a noble family, to help elevate our standing. The third eldest is a high priest of Ratatosk in Heimdall.

"I grew up in their shadow. I wanted to prove myself. The war was a very distant concept then, for elves. Perhaps a few skirmishes on the border. But I knew that the army offered me two options: I could either rise through the ranks and earn a respectable position, or I could die in glory, as a martyr.

"The skirmishes got worse. I got the opportunity to leave, to go to Heimdall to continue my studies. So I did." Alstan's brow furrowed. "I left behind a lot of good men and women there. Never thought to check back in with them. I graduated, and returned to the field as an officer. But we were already retreating, leaving our own people to get swallowed up by the humans as we hid behind our forests and mountains—impassable to humans. The bombs fell on Heimdall, that day. A quarter of the population dead."

Alstan paused, thinking of Myra and their conversation a week prior. Her story wasn't his to tell, he knew that. "…My best friend died that day. Him and his little girl." (She'd been the spitting image of her father too, with his cheek-splitting grin and the star-silver curls. Her eyes had been Myra's though, intelligent and good-humored)

He saw the flinch that went through Kratos at those words. It wasn't hard to imagine what was going through his head. Kratos had nearly lost Yuan often enough, and he had the Yggdrasills to worry about now as well. After the last few weeks? The mental image of his loved ones dying as bombs fell was all too easy to picture. "That's—"

Alstan held up a hand for silence, which Kratos obeyed. "It was a long time ago."

"Doesn't matter."

Alstan snorted. Kratos was too smart for his own good sometimes. "Regardless. I was given charge of the situation, and I was too full of rage, and grief to make the decisions that needed to be made. I ordered the retaliation, on a strategic human town called Bowten." He caught the look on Kratos' face. "You've heard of it."

Kratos nodded. "…yeah. The humans call it a massacre."

"It was. I sent a team of mages out there, in the night. One of them was summoner. They summoned Maxwell, the Spirit of Matter, and Magic. He used a spell called Meteor Storm. It obliterated the town, and the other mages finished it off."

Alstan fell silent, and Kratos let him collect his thoughts. It was long minutes before Alstan spoke again.

"I was praised for it. For the bold, decisive strike against the humans…It took me a long time to recover from the grief, but when I did, I realized that it was too much. I had gone too far and crossed a line. But the elves were still proud, still refusing to take any blame for abandoning their own people on the border, and—I didn't want to be a part of that. Refugees came to us, half-elves that actually managed to make it all the way to elven lands. They turned them away, spat in their faces. I left after that. I didn't want to be a part of an army that cared so little for its soldiers and country."

Kratos nodded, his fingers still playing with the thin pages. "Thank you for telling me. I just—I never wanted this. I never wanted to join the war; I just wanted a quiet life. But—I'm good at this. At fighting, and killing. And I tried not to be a part of this, but…here I am. It makes me wonder if destiny truly exists. Or fate, or what have you."

Alstan hummed in understanding. "The elves don't believe in fate. Not as an independent concept. We believe that Origin, as the controller of Time, keeps the River of Time flowing, and that there is no changing events as they happen, or have happened, or that will. We just keep going."

"…That idea seems kind of sad," Kratos said, stretching his legs out, careful not to kick his stacks of books. "It kind of negates the idea of free will."

"Not necessarily. It's like you're swimming in a river. You can move around the water, change direction, but with a strong current, you can't escape it."

A thoughtful noise. "I still disagree with it." Kratos' smile was a bleak thing, but there were hints of his old, beaming one hidden in the corners. He was healing. "I don't like the idea that we couldn't have escaped all this suffering, that it was all going to happen no matter what. I need to believe that we can change things."

"I believe you will. That you already are." Alstan nodded to the stacks of books. "War isn't the only vehicle for change, and you can show them that. While you teach them their letters and numbers, also teach them a better way. Perhaps there will be a world that doesn't know war, one day, under your tutelage."

"I don't think I'll be able to make that big a difference," Kratos said, his cheeks pink. His family believed in him, he knew that. Yuan, Martel, and Mithos were unshakable in their faith. But to have Alstan's faith too? It was rather humbling.

Kratos stirred when Yuan neared him. "'s just me," Yuan told him, careful to stand just out of arm's reach. He'd made the mistake of startling Kratos out of sleep before. The bruises were still fading.

"Ev'ythin' okay?" Kratos asked, yawning. His shoulders were still, as he'd fallen asleep hunched over his maps and books, still trying to find something of use on Ravenatele.

"Yeah, everyone's okay." Yuan took a seat beside him. "I stopped by the room, but you weren't there, so I came looking."

They'd been more nervous, since their capture at the capital. Every night, they checked in with their little family, needing to see them alive and well before being able to sleep.

Kratos sat up, groaning as his back popped and cracked. "That's not all of it though." Kratos eyed his best friend. "What happened?"

"I asked the blacksmith to make a pair of rings." Yuan smiled, shy and delighted. "I'm gonna ask Martel to marry me."

"Really?" Kratos grinned. "That's wonderful! I'm happy for you."

"Well, I haven't asked her yet." Yuan shifted, his ankles sliding against each other anxiously. "…You think she'll say yes?"

His grin softened to a fond smile, and Kratos clasped a hand on Yuan's shoulder. "There's not a doubt in my mind."

"The humans are scrambling right now," Lyrion said when they all met again. Their informants in the area had returned this morning, with an updated map and information. "According to our intelligence, the troops' morale is low due to the murder of General Aurion, particularly since it was at the hands of a few escaped prisoners."

"They don't know that it was Kratos that did it?" Yuan asked.

"No. There are rumors, of course, but there hasn't been an official statement. It's part of what's hurting their troops' morale. They know that their leaders are covering something up, and they no longer feel safe when their own prisoners can escape."

"Which makes it an ideal time to attack," Viren added. "If we can strike a major blow, it might be enough to cripple them. Possibly even earn ourselves a surrender."

"And you think Ravenatele is such an opportunity?"

Viren looked at Kratos; he could read the human better, particularly these days. They'd bonded, a little, after he'd returned from the capital, each to their own grief, mourning people that the rest of the world seemed to think didn't deserve mourning. "You told us it used to be a capital of half of the human empire."

"Right…that was—what—five hundred years ago?"

"But you still knew it. You haven't been part of human culture in over a decade and you know that city. It's a symbol, as well as a strategic point. If we take it, we gain a lot of ground."

"No one doubts that, but the question still remains as to how," Yuan pointed out. "It's a highly defensible city, and the terrain doesn't leave us room for open battle."

"I may have found a solution," Mithos said. Everyone looked at him. "We use that terrain against them."

"How so?"

"Gnome." Mithos smoothed out the map, studying the city. "Ravenatele largely depends on the valley due to its natural defenses. I got the idea from Abernac, actually, and how he got his injury."

Martel was the first one to get it. "A rockslide."

"Yes. It'll scatter them and break their defenses."

Yuan leaned over the map, eyeing the terrain. "And they would have nowhere to run. We can leave them only one way to run, and just push them out."

"We can, Lyrion agreed. "But we need something more decisive. A bolder statement.'

"Like what?" Kratos asked warily. Since Zaren had been revealed as the traitor, Lyrion had been…more civil, with them, but that didn't mean that Kratos trusted that tone in his voice.

Viren was the one who answered. "We don't leave them anywhere to run. We have our forces here, and here," he pointed to the openings in the valley on either side of the city. "And we box them in."

It took a moment for the words to sink in.

"You're talking about an extermination." Kratos stared at Viren; he could have expected a plan like that from Lyrion, but Viren had always been a kinder person. "That city is full of innocent civilians."

Lyrion's fists clenched on the table. "This is war, Kratos. We don't have time for mercy. I thought you'd learned that when you killed your father."

Yuan watched as Kratos' face turned stony, his eyes hard. (It's terrible, but at moments like these, that's when Yuan can see the resemblance to Sandor more than ever) "That situation was different," Kratos said, voice tight.

"No, it isn't. It's the same decision. Mercy versus the greater good. You chose correctly then—you gave us this opportunity. Don't fight this choice now."

Kratos' face shut down entirely, going blank. It scared Yuan a little that he could do that. "Yessir."

"I didn't want this," Mithos said, voice hollow. The four of them were sharing a room these days; there was less and less space for the recruits these days because of the refugees in the city. It made it easier to sleep, too. "I meant to drive the people out, like you said, Yuan. Not—this."

"It's going to be a slaughter," Martel said. "All to make a damn statement."

"But…if it helps end the war, won't it be worth it?" Kratos asked without looking up from where he was rolling up shirts and socks in his pack, getting ready for tomorrow's march to Ravenatele.

"Not at that price!" Mithos exclaimed. "We're sentencing all those people—innocent or not—to death. Who are we to make that decision?"

And you're going to play judge, jury, and executioner?

"Somebody has to. Otherwise the cycle just keeps going and the war won't end."

"It shouldn't be our first option," Martel said. "We haven't even tried for peace." (In truth, Martel would prefer it not to be an option at all, but she knows desperation, she knows how it is when it comes down to two options, Us and Them, and surviving only leaves room for Us)

"No," Yuan said slowly. "We tried. We went to the King directly for peace, and we were almost put to death for it."

"We can't expect it to happen on the first try."

"We can't afford the extra tries, Martel. "People are dying by the hundreds every day that this war goes on." People that leave behind children, and wives, and sisters, and grandparents to fend for themselves.

"So we just give up?" Martel demanded. She and Mithos didn't often look very much alike, except for times like right now, with their jaws set, and their eyes ablaze with injustice and determination.

"I never said that."

"So then what?"

"I don't know! Okay, I don't…know." Yuan sat back on his cot wearily. "I don't want the fighting to continue—of course I don't—but peace—the way you're talking about it—I don't…it's hard for me to believe it's possible."

"It has to be possible. Otherwise, what has all this pain been for?" Yuan didn't know if she was saying it for them or for herself. (She's so strong, Martel. He doesn't where she finds that strength, doesn't know how she hasn't broken under the strain of everything. He feels brittle, these days. He doesn't think he can take much more of this)

Kratos cleared his throat. "So what's your solution?" He wanted Martel and Mithos to be right, wanted there to be another way. He just didn't see one.

"We're supposed to start marching tomorrow, right?" Mithos began slowly.

"Yeah."

"So, why don't we go on ahead of the army and warn the general or the governor—whoever's in charge of the area?"

"Because we'll probably be strung up by our heels for it," Yuan said. "They're not in a good place right now, and they definitely won't trust half-elves coming for peace."

"So we go in with no weapons."

Yuan stared at Kratos. "Are you suicidal right now?"

"Humans don't understand magic. Not properly. They think half-elves need staffs, or candles and summoning circles. It's an abstract concept to them. And they don't know that I can do magic. So we're not walking in powerless."

"We can't all four go," Martel pointed out. "If things go south, there needs to be some of us here to bring the army in."

"I'll go!" Mithos said before the other three immediately shot him down.

"You need to stay here," Yuan explained. "You're the linchpin in the entire attack with Gnome. So you stay with the army. And Martel, if things do go south, you should be here, with the army, ready to do your job. Healers are rare enough as it is. Kratos and I will go."

Mithos looked like he wanted to argue more, but it was hard to argue when Yuan laid it all out so logically like that.

"We can get there faster on Noishe. He's strong enough to carry both of us now." Noishe hadn't evolved into anything else, but he'd grown about a half a foot taller in the last two years, and had grown more muscular.

"And if things go south?"

"It should take us…"Kratos did some mental calculations. "About a half a day to reach them on Noishe. If we're not back by sunset, if you don't hear anything from us, Noishe'll come back and you send the army in."

"That leaves you two trapped inside."

"We'll fight our way out."

"And besides," Yuan managed a bleak version of his usual arrogant smirk. "I can light up the whole area if I need to. I'm impossible to miss."

"I don't like it," Martel said. "But it's our best option right now. When do you leave?"

"Soon as Kratos is done refolding that same shirt he's been folding for the past twenty minutes."

Kratos flushed, but he stuffed the shirt in his pack. "We'll see you tomorrow," he told Martel, kissing her forehead before giving Mithos a hug.

"You know we're not that easy to get rid of." Yuan ruffled Mithos' hair, which earned him a playful punch to the ribs, and bent to kiss Martel slowly. "We're coming back," he assured her, still close enough that he could feel her breath on his skin.

"You'd better." Martel gave them both one last, tight hug before they slung their packs over their shoulders and left the room.