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He stares at me for a long, aching moment, his eyes dark with concern and a hopeless kind of understanding. Then, slowly, reluctantly...he nods, grim acceptance settling over his sharp features.
"As you say, sister," he murmurs, his hand finding mine beneath the table, his fingers lacing tight with my own. "I'll stand with you, for you...no matter the cost."
I squeeze his hand gratefully. Thank you, I mouth silently, holding his gaze. Thank you, Thane. For understanding. For not judging. Not condemning, though gods know I deserve it.
He just shakes his head minutely, his smile small and steadfast. Then, with a final press of his fingers...he lets go, leaving me to face the council, the consequences, on my own.
Drawing in a deep breath, I turn back to the elders, the eager light in their eyes, the avid set of their mouths. Vultures, I think bleakly. Carrion crows, scenting blood and breakage on the wind.
Lifting my chin, I meet the elders' gazes. "The warlord's greatest weakness," I say quietly, each word a noose around my unraveling heart, "is his pride. His arrogance in thinking he can conquer all, claim all, without consequence or cost."
I pause, letting the words sink in. "He underestimates us," I continue softly, steadily. "Dismisses us as weak chattel, cattle to be culled at his whim. He thinks we will cower, crumble, at the first red rush of his horde, the first cruel crush of his heel on our necks."
I lean forward, my eyes blazing, my blood up...even as that traitorous voice whispers liar, liar, in the back of my head.
Because I know...I know...that Grok is many things. Proud and powerful, fierce and ferocious. But he is not a fool.
No. My Grok is clever. Canny in a way that belies his brutish bulk. He sees the world, the war, with eyes unclouded by hatred or hubris...and acts with a ruthless, pragmatic precision that chills me, even as it thrills me.
Damn him, I think savagely. Damn him to hell.
"What is this warlord planning?" One of the elders asks with narrowed eyes. "You must tell us what he believes he can do to us, Red Blade. Tell us of his arrogance so we may end him."
"An attack on the settlement," I say, my voice steady despite the twisting in my gut. "Grok was planning a raid, an assault. I overheard his warriors preparing for it. We need to fortify our defenses, to be ready..."
But even as the words leave my lips, Elder Percy is shaking his head, a grim, almost gleeful smile playing about his lips. "A pity, then, that we've already struck first. That we've already bled them, in retribution for crimes both old and new."
I stare at him, cold dread unfurling in my belly. "What?" I whisper. "What do you mean? What have you done?"
He leans forward, his gnarled hands gripping the table edge. "What needed to be done. What has always needed doing, if we are to win this war, to end this threat."
He pauses, his gaze sweeping the room. "We struck at the heart of them. At their young, their vulnerable. The she-beasts and their squalling spawn, the futures they sought to build on the bones of our dead, the ashes of our homes."
I feel the blood drain from my face. "You...you attacked their children?" I rasp, my voice thin with horror, with revulsion. "Their females, heavy with young? You slaughtered them like animals?"
"They are animals!" another elder snarls. "They have raided us, ravaged us, for generations...and you would have us show mercy? When we have them at our mercy, finally, after all this time?"
"Mercy is for men," Elder Percy agrees coldly. "And the ogres...they are not men. They are a pestilence, a plague upon our lands. And the only cure, the only salvation...is to burn them out, root and stem and seed."
I stare at them, feeling something sick and searing rising up in my throat. Gods, is this what we've become? Slaughterers of babes, of mothers heavy with new life? Butchers and brigands, no better than the monsters we claim to abhor?
No, I think desperately. No, this isn't right. This isn't just. We are better than this, bigger than this...or at least we should be.
We have to be...or else what are we fighting for? What are we killing for...if not to build a world where such horrors are a thing of the past? A world where peace is possible, between all peoples, all kinds...
But even as the thought forms, even as the hope kindles...I feel it guttering, failing, in the face of the cold, cruel reality before me. The glitter of zeal, of bloodlust, in the eyes of those I once trusted, once believed in.
The eyes...of monsters. Of murderers...no matter how they cloak it in righteousness.
Ogres in human skin, I think dimly. Brutes and butchers...cloaked in silk.
Gods...what have we done? What have we become in the pursuit of power over a foe we no longer even seek to understand?
Thane shifts beside me, his hand finding mine, his fingers tight and true. I cling to him, to the anchor, the alloy of his strength and love...even as I feel the world, the war, tilting around me. Shifting around me...until nothing makes sense anymore, nothing matters anymore.
Nothing...but the gnawing knowledge that we are not the heroes here.
"What do you say, Red Blade?" Elder Percy asks, his voice sly. "You've been among them. You know their ways, their weaknesses. Surely you see the wisdom of striking hard and fast, before they can rally?"
