It's like a flower, Grace thought dumbly. Petals of light bloomed outward from the staff, embracing the battlefield and all who stood there. As the wave passed her, she could feel it peering into her mind, and, satisfied with what it saw, moving on.
The other morphs were not passed over so easily. Each one the blossom of light touched went rigid; blades would fall, and a few screamed before collapsing to the ground. Her heart thrummed with each fallen body. It only took an instant for the light to sweep over the entire valley, and fade into nothing; but it felt like an eternity as the morphs lay still on the ground.
Seconds passed. Human soldiers stared at their fallen adversaries in shock. Grace's heart refused to slow as she lowered the staff, the gem now cracked and useless.
Beside her mount, Canas was suddenly swept off the ground by Hector's crushing embrace. "You did it!" he shouted, looking over at Grace. "You both did!"
"We did something," Canas wheezed, trying to wriggle free. "We can't be sure of what yet."
The humans still looked to each other in confusion, unsure of what to make of the situation. A few decided to press their advantage—until Hector's bellow stopped them in their tracks. "Hold!" he cried. "Hold, damn you!" He deposited Canas on the ground, continuously scanning the battlefield. "How will we know if it worked?"
"We'll know if they get up and don't immediately try to kill you," Grace murmured.
Long minutes passed before some of the morphs began to stir, and it seemed like the entire battlefield held its breath. They rose, slowly, clumsily, to their feet; the grace and determination of a few minutes before was gone. When their golden eyes turned up to the adversaries surrounding them, they were full of fear—genuine, human fear. A few of them grabbed their fallen weapons and brandished them defensively, but didn't attack. By some miracle, none of the humans struck either; they all maintained their stances, staring down the morphs, neither side making the first move.
It was Grace who broke the silence. "Lay down your weapons," she called, her small voice carrying over the entire battlefield. "It's over."
"It's over," Lyn whispered, scarcely believing it herself. "The morphs have stopped fighting, and they're laying down their arms."
"Praise be to Elimine," Renault murmured in reply. "Enough blood has been spilled already."
They stood at the edge of the outcropping, surveying the scene below. Denning hung off Renault's shoulder, clutching his recently-healed chest wound; and Guy, just recently awoken, was trying not to lean too hard on Lyn. "We won," he said, voice weak.
"We won," she echoed. She turned to him, putting a supporting arm around his waist. "How are you feeling?"
"Lucky to be alive," he replied. He smiled at her. "Lucky in general."
She smiled back.
"A message," Denning whispered. Tears trickled from his golden eyes.
"We'll have to get you fixed before we bring you to grace," Renault murmured. He patted the red book, tucked safely into his belt. "I believe we'll be more than able to."
Lyn turned around. "What about her?"
Mark knelt on the rock nearby, his back to the group and the battlefield below. Cassandra lay on his lap, a trembling, sobbing mess. She hadn't spoken a word since dropping her blade, and that was at least five minutes ago. Nor had Mark moved in all that time; he'd just cradled Cassandra, stroking the tangle of her unbraided hair, holding back his own tears as hers flowed freely. Lyn felt almost as though the four of them were intruding.
Denning lifted his hand, pointing at Cassandra. "Dread."
Lyn shivered, and nodded.
"I await."
Renault looked at him. "You're certain?"
Denning nodded.
"I'll need your help," Renault said to Lyn and Guy as he lowered Denning to the ground.
"We'll do whatever you ask," Lyn said.
"Uh, right," Guy murmured. "What she said."
Once Denning was comfortably and safely lying down, the three of them made their way to Mark. He looked up at them as they knelt around him and Cassandra's prone forms. His face was entreating, but his mouth remained shut.
"Hold her," Renault said softly.
Guy and Lyn exchanged a glance, and gently took a hold of Cassandra's limbs, Guy taking her ankles as Lyn held her wrists.
Renault looked up at Mark. "You should move."
"No." Mark's voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.
"You'll be hurt."
"Then I'll be hurt."
Renault studied him a moment longer, and opened the book. He looked down at Cassandra, eyes softening. "I did not know you then. I wish I had. The work you did to save so many shall now be used to save you."
He began to read aloud, and Lyn and Guy were suddenly forced to tighten their grips as Cassandra began to writhe, then thrash, then scream from the depths of her soul. Mark, at last, could hold back his tears no longer, and they merged with Cassandra's on the rock below. She struck him again and again with her body, yet he did not flinch, did not speak, did not move; he just kept stroking her hair, crying all the while.
And then it was over. Renault finished reading, and Cassandra went suddenly and completely still. The change almost startled Lyn for how quickly it came; the only sign the morph was even still alive was her rapid, ragged breathing. Her hair had settled over her face. It was Mark who at last reached down and gently pushed it aside with his finger, revealing her wide, empty eyes, staring at the mountainside—or perhaps at nothing at all.
"Cassandra?" Mark asked. The emotion in his voice made Lyn choke.
Cassandra slowly turned her head, her vacant stare now fixed on him.
Mark's face grew agitated. "Cassandra, please. Say something. Anything. Just—"
"Mark." The word rose from her mouth like a bubble breaking on the surface.
Mark nodded, wetting his trembling lips. "Yes. Yes, it's me."
Cassandra's hand slipped from Lyn's now-loose grip, and lifted to Mark's cheek. She blinked a few times, and her eyes seemed to focus at last. "Mark," she said again, softer this time. "Is—is it really—" She swallowed, and her brow furrowed. "Am I—me?"
Mark's hand quaked as he stroked her hair again. "Yes, Cassandra. You're you."
Her face broke, and the sobs returned. Mark clutched her to his chest, his whole body shaking. Lyn and Guy released her and stood, looking down at the two of them, unsure of what to say or do.
Renault, fortunately, gave them an out. "I'll need your help with Denning and Luther as well," he murmured.
"Right," Lyn rasped. She swallowed, and nodded. "Right," she said again, now that her voice was clear. "Come on, Guy."
They moved back to where the archer lay, leaving Mark and Cassandra alone with their tears.
It was well past sunset by the time the fliers arrived on the outcropping, and darkness had claimed the sky when they finally landed in front of the outpost. Both sides were gathering up their injured and fallen; the humans were getting ready to transport them back to Ostia, while the morphs… well, Mark wasn't sure where the morphs would go. Would they return to the fort with their reduced numbers and broken hearts? Or strike out for a new home, somewhere else?
He hadn't let go of Cassandra the entire time they flew down. They were lucky that Hyperion was strong enough and willing to carry both of them as they glided into the valley. Lyn, Guy, Luther, and Denning rode with the others. Renault, somehow, had vanished before they'd mounted up. Heath kept glancing back at the two of them, as though he were worried Cassandra would stab him in the back; not that she was in any shape to fight, clutching Mark as much as she clutched the saddle, eyes squeezed shut and face buried in his shoulder. Still, Mark would have carried her down the mountain on foot if he'd had to. She was back—he was sure of that much. But she hadn't spoken in what felt like ages, and wouldn't meet his gaze. He was determined not to lose her again, for he feared this time he might not find her.
There were many warm greetings when they landed. Hector, of course, gave Mark one of his signature rib-crushing hugs, and there were slaps on the back from the other surviving humans; but Mark extricated himself from them as soon as he could, and made his way, hand-in-hand with the silent Cassandra, to the gates of the garrison. Denning and Luther trailed behind like twin shadows. Hector had posted a nominal guard around the morph survivors, but they did nothing to stop their approach, nor did they seem overly concerned about the morphs themselves as they gathered their dead and wounded. What had been deadly combatants moments ago were now a family in the throes of mourning.
At least Cassandra got revenge for them. It was an ugly thought, but one he couldn't quite chase away.
Gold eyes lifted to meet them, and there were cries of relief. "You're alive!" Bennet cried, rushing forward. The human guards flinched at his approach, but their weapons remained sheathed. "You're all alive!"
Mark was surprised when the large morph took them all in his arms, squeezing almost as hard as Hector had. He was further surprised when Denning and Luther both returned the embrace. "We're alive," Denning echoed. "And we're ourselves again." He threw his head back and shouted in to the night. "This is not a message from anyone, and I'm not awaiting a damn thing!"
Bennet responded by squeezing them tighter, and Mark had to wriggle free. Bennet looked down at Cassandra, and his face sobered. "I guess I should report to you," he said. "We—"
"Not now." It was the first thing she'd said since the mountain, and Mark was shocked at the voice that came from her lips. It sounded like a wine glass already falling to the floor, waiting to shatter. "Let's just do what we can."
Bennet nodded, and turned back to the morphs, returning to whatever he'd been doing. Cassandra stepped forward, slipping her hand from Mark's. He immediately grabbed for her, but she shook her head. "Please," she whispered.
His heart cracked, but Mark lowered his hand and watched her go.
"You should go too," Denning said softly. "There are many here who would be happy to see you alive."
Mark moved through the camp feeling like a ghost. Most of the others looked like ghosts, too. He stopped in surprise at a familiar figure standing beside a cart and wearing an elegant dress, though it was now ripped, stained, and singed from battle. "You're alive," he said dumbly.
Ellain turned to him, and for the first time since they'd met, she did not greet him with a smile. "Despite my best efforts." She turned back to the cart—Mark was shocked to realize it was full of wounded humans, most of them unconscious. She nodded as though satisfied, and turned to leave.
Mark caught her arm. "Gavin?"
Ellain halted. "Peleus wouldn't let me see," she said. "And by the time we got out here, he wouldn't let me care." She pulled away. "I need to find a horse."
Mark let her go, and looked at the cart of prisoners. They were all alive, as far as he could tell; in fact, there was a spent healing staff lying on the ground. He looked after Ellain once more.
"Did we win?" one of the survivors croaked.
Mark started, and went to the man, checking him over. His wounds had been healed, though he was still exhausted. Mark took in the uniform. "Lieutenant Sanders?" he asked.
Sanders nodded, wincing at the effort. "Did we win?" he asked again.
"I don't think anybody won today," Mark answered.
The lieutenant's hands tightened into fists. "Bastards," he muttered.
Mark felt his own bile rising. "It wasn't their fault."
"They killed my men," the lieutenant spat. "Whoever's fault it was doesn't change that."
Mark opened his mouth for an argument, and found none. What could he say to make it make sense?
What could I say to make any of this make sense?
He left the cart as Ellain returned with a horse. Most of the morphs worked in morose silence, but there were a few sobbing voices that lifted above the ruin. Mark followed one to its source; Moriel, who sat, face buried in her hands, crying with her whole body. Percy stood by her, his white flank stained with mud and blood, his tack lying in a disorganized pile a few feet away.
Mark knelt next to Moriel and gently placed a hand on her shoulder. She jerked up, staring at him like she was hallucinating. "You're here," she whispered.
Mark nodded.
"At least something went right," she said, lowering her hands.
Mark looked at Percy, then at her. "Durran?"
She shook her head. "He's fine. I saw him just a few minutes ago."
Mark nodded, but he couldn't help but notice the sorrow in her eyes. He thought it over a second longer. "Deichtine?" he ventured.
Moriel's lips trembled, and she returned her face to her hands as her sobs began anew.
All around the outpost, it was the same thing. The survivors outnumbered the fallen, but each morph that had fallen took with them the happiness of all who knew them. Mark felt like he was walking among the living dead. He felt like one of them himself.
He wasn't sure when the preparations were completed. It just happened that everyone started moving away, out of the outpost and back toward the fort. The Ostian guards watched them go without interfering; the morphs didn't even bother to look at them. Ellain led a cart of human survivors back to where Hector and the humans waited, others following after her. They returned leading carts ladened with injured and dead morphs. Mostly dead.
Cassandra found Mark before he could find her. She emerged from the sea of bodies, standing before him as the rest of the morphs flowed around them like an island in the stream. The pain on her face made him want to take her in his arms, kiss her deeply, and tell her everything was going to be all right. It would have been a lie, but he longed to say it.
"We're leaving," Cassandra said at last, finally breaking the silence. She was looking at his cloak's clasp.
Mark waited to se if she would say more before responding. "We?" he finally asked.
She pulled her arms around herself. He'd never seen her look so small before. "You should go back," she said softly. "To Ostia."
"No."
"Mark, please—"
He stepped forward and took her hands. With her strength and speed, she could have broken away in a heartbeat; instead, she just let him pull her arms up, her fingers hanging limply in his. "Cassandra," he said, "they were my friends too. The fort has become my home. And with Peleus gone, the danger is passed, and—"
"It's not just that," she whispered. Her fingers closed around his. "There is… there is so much to do. So many dead to bury. So many wounds to heal. So many wrongs to right."
"Let me help."
She smiled, and it was the sweetest thing he'd ever experienced. "I know you want to. I want it too. But I can't let you." She looked around at the mass of bodies moving past them. "They need me to be strong, Mark. And I need to know I can be strong."
Mark's heart was falling through his chest. "I'm stronger with you," he murmured.
"And I with you. But this is a moment where I need to know I can be strong alone." One of her hands slipped from his and went to her temples. "What Peleus did… you can't understand. You can try—I'm sure you are trying—but you've no idea what it was like."
He wanted to deny it, but couldn't.
"I know you want to help me. But right now, what I need from you is for you to be safe, and let me be the leader my people need."
Mark's throat was filling up again. "And then?"
Cassandra shrugged helplessly. "I don't know, Mark. I don't know when the scars Peleus left will fade, or if they ever will." She looked up—not at him, but past him, to where the humans were tending to their own dead and wounded. "I do know that we can't stay in the fort anymore."
"Cassandra—"
"You know it as well as I. Before, our peace with Ostia was tenuous, but now…"
"They know it wasn't your fault."
"Do they?" She met his gaze at last, and he almost shrank from the steel inside it. "All of them? Can you guarantee not one among their number blames us for the friends and comrades they lost today? That nobody will seek their revenge in the time to come?"
He thought of Sanders, and said nothing.
"But." She took his hand once more, and managed to force a smile. "Another thing I know is that I still love you. And I think I always will."
Mark found himself smiling back. "Even if I'm not at your side?"
"You'll be where you need to be." She met his gaze at last. "If I never see you again, at least I'll know that."
Mark leaned forward and kissed her, and she did not push him away.
When they finally parted, most of the morphs had gone. Only Denning and Grace remained, watching the two of them with sad eyes. "I will see you again," Mark whispered.
Cassandra shut her eyes. "Goodbye, Mark."
She slipped from his grasp, and turned into the night.