Nothing walks the earth more savage than a mare enraged.
Gods colliding, ethos and mythos trying to combine. The Sacred Band caught up in a whirlwind not of any god's devising: he and Niko had wanted to save twenty-three pairs of fated Theban fighters. Now everything feels fated and fighting oversweeps its boundaries of time and place and plane.
Then what difference does human striving make: mortal struggle, valor, pain? If you live, then live for the test of spirit, for the celebration of the heart. Live to fight on other days. Lose your beloveds one by one. And remember. Exalt the kiss of friend and horse and wind and sun, which venality cannot cheapen nor stupidity belittle.
"Mercy is not in favor in my heavens today," says Vashanka, unforgiving and combative, folding vast arms and spearing Harmony with lightning that crackles from his gaze.
Niko knew death like a sister - she was his true partner in the phenomenal world.
Niko's angular face caught a flicker of firelight and Tempus saw his future there: sharp purpose, discipline, and power in perfect balance; love of man and gods, and mercy transcending all. If war ever wore a more humane face, this one would make it so.
Time to unite the Sacred Bands, Thebans and his people: one unit, one heart, one swing through life.
Look to the souls of Your own soldiers, God, who labor in Thine awful cause.
War's balance will prevail.
We've the new hard-steel, though why they're all so hot to pay twice the price when men're soft as clay and even wood will pierce the boldest belly, I can't say.
If the gods sent you to fight here, then the gods are fools.
Revenge is fruitless.
You've been playing gods-and-witches again, that's clear.
All gods are tricksters, and war gods worst of any.
War is all and king of all
Nothing he knew of, enunciated life like death.
Only from chaos does order come. The angry Fates bring death where they will, when war is king, says Enlil, storm god of the armies, and the tip of his crown rends the clouds above their heads. "Wheresoever I rule, death comes shambling after. So it has always been, is, and will be."
These warriors of the Sacred Band were inscrutable; they loved their war and death and picking through the bones of time to sort out right from wrong, good from bad, holy from profane, honor from dishonor.
Wars don't bring lasting peace, only lasting death.
Strife brings all things into being on her battlefield. This I know. I have been there many times," says Vashanka, lord of sack and pillage. "I have died before.
Revenge is never the best driver for a battle, but a common one.
Everyone prepares for battle in his own way.
No ethos, pursued without thought or mercy, is ethical.
Old enough to kill means old enough to die
Proof of war, when it comes, always comes too late.
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