Time and again, the war ends, only to start afresh; a cycle longer than the Weavers' records tell.

The meeting is in a broad meadow.  The ground here is soaked with generations of blood—senseless waste.  The borders haven't changed but a mile, maybe two, in a hundred years, shifting back and forth.  Reddawn checks over herself and her daughter, then nods.  "Just keep your hands away from your weapon; it'll do no good to give them reason to draw their own."

Auris nods.

A band of orcs stands apart from them, on the other side of the field, and when Reddawn approaches, Auris just a step behind, a woman walks out to meet them, her heavy, intricate gold jewelry marking her as their leader.

Both parties stop in the center.  The orcish woman speaks first.  "Chieftain Reddawn," she says in a heavy accent, and the words are tinged with disdain.

"Chieftain Ineri," Reddawn responds evenly.

"My people do not like the idea of surrender."

"It's not a surrender, but a truce.  This clearing marks the border.  You may continue fighting, but you'll only lose time and lives.  You've made no progress for months, and we tire of it.  Accept the borders as they stand now."

Ineri curls her lip, unsatisfied.  "We claim to the far edge of the field, then."

"No further."

Ineri nods.  "Then we shall have peace," she quirks her mouth in a half-smile, and the expression isn't happy, "at last."

"Indeed."  Reddawn reaches out her hand, and Ineri takes it, and the two shake on the deal.

The orc chieftain stays a moment longer, watching as Reddawn and her daughter leave the Orzec's field, now.  Auris turns to ask her mother a question, the phrase half out of her mouth when Reddawn jolts forward, gasping, sinking, falling to her knees, slumping to the ground, a crossbow bolt sunk deep in her back.  Auris stares, slack jawed.  Behind her, Chieftain Ineri bellows an Orcish war cry, her tone furious.

At last, the images process.

Auris whirls, axe and shield all but appearing in her hands as a terrible, roaring scream rips from her throat.  A force fills her being, a dark aura enveloping her, and the orcs freeze at the dread sight.  Auris' mind is sharp with singular intent: the destruction of those weak, cowardly, honor-less savages who would dare resort to such underhanded measures.

❂

The field is silent.

Auris leans down, wipes her dagger on a bit of grass, sheathes it at her belt, and slides her axe's handle through the frogs so it hangs at her hip.  She lost her shield in the fight, but spies the red and gold paint beneath a body.  Gripping the orc's shoulder, she half rolls, half shoves it aside, and retrieves her shield from the mud.  Her hands are dark with blood and grime—all of her must be, truly.  She slips one arm through the long leather strap, slinging the shield across her back, and straightens.

The field is nothing more than a trampled patch of mud, a few tufts of coarse grass the only greenery; the rest has long since died beneath their heels, squashed to nothing.  Auris looks over the bodies, and...  The edges of her vision darken, her stomach abruptly hollow, and she looks away to the trees.  Her breath still comes deeply, and the air smells of copper and...less pleasant things.  She should be accustomed to this by now.  But there's something different when there are no moans, no voices, no squelching footsteps and the unspoken truce between those collecting the injured and the dead.  There's something different when you're alone, in the silence, and the bodies...look like that.  There's something different when there's no denying what you've done.

Auris' expression hardens, her jaw sets.  She has extinguished the dishonorable.  She has claimed her recompense.  She looks at the bodies, takes in all that is recognizable, and then nods, satisfied.  She will not hide from her own work.  With tall, confident posture, she turns.

You fight well.

And halts.  She knows this presence.  It's the same one she felt with her in her rage, the same one she felt filling her very being, heightening her senses, strengthening her blows...  Auris sinks to one knee, bowing her head.  "Miris, my lord.  You answered me."

You may yet attain what I lent to you this day, if you do as I say.

The presence is almost overwhelming; incomprehensibly vast.  Auris gives a small nod of her head.  "So long as you keep my honor intact, I accept."

Choose a weapon, then, and with the very force of your will, you'll strike strongly and true.  Grow in strength, and come when I call.

Auris nods again, and the presence fades—though not entirely.  She can feel some wisp of it hanging about her shoulders, ready to act on her command.  If Miris is with her...  She kneels by her mother's side.

The heavy shaft of the crossbow bolt protrudes from just below Reddawn's shoulder blade and Auris reaches toward it, grasps the base firmly in one hand, and snaps off the end, tossing it aside.

She needs to bring her back.  Auris' fingers trail across her mother's back, leaving dark streaks as she draws her arms to herself, and her hands tremble.  She can't bear to answer the question that looms over her and she stands, moving back toward the orcs, taking from them shields, belts, tunics, working to lash these together into a makeshift sled.

She's healed herself before; by Miris' grace, she's healed herself, and her lord has just answered her, she can feel the power about her, so why can't she draw on it?  Why can't she draw the bolt free, close the wound, why has she done nothing to save her?  Fear closes off the answers and Auris continues her work numbly.  At last, she draws the sled next to Reddawn and crouches beside her.

Auris' breath fogs the air in a long exhalation, her eyes memorizing the curve of her mother's back, the pattern of her braids...  She reaches forward, gently moving a braid from where it's fallen across her mother's cheek.  Reddawn's head is turned to the side, her eyes mostly closed, one arm trapped beneath her body where she clutched at her chest.

It's a few moments longer before Auris can bring herself to draw her dagger, hold it near Reddawn's mouth and nose, and watch those few, agonizing seconds...

A few seconds longer.

Just a few seconds longer.

Surely...surely!

Auris blinks rapidly, clearing her eyes.  Wait—was that—?  She leans closer.  Miris, if you would offer me anything, let it be this...

The dagger's blade clouds, just for a moment, ever so slightly.

The air rushes from Auris' lungs in a sob of relief, and once it's started, the tears don't stop.

❂

Sunrise.  The ice on the cliffs glitters in the light.  A lone figure emerges from the tree line, approaching the Oretharos settlement.  A shield is slung across her back; an axe glimmers at her belt.  She moves slowly, pulling behind herself a makeshift sled, and she is not alone, after all—but the body on the sled is deathly still.  The rope, where she holds it, is stained dark, and the morning light glimmers, too, across her hands, bright with blood.