Aron wants to be down there. I can tell. He’s recharged in a way I’ve never seen before at the sight of the battle preparing to happen below. It’s early, but I can see troops gathering on the walls of the Yshrem keep and the Adassian soldiers are organizing, getting ready to move. It’s sure to be a bloodbath, given that they’ll be running up against stone walls protected by a river, but it also looks like no one cares.
For a moment, I want to take Aron by the hand and lead him away from this, from all of this. There’s no time limit on how long it takes for Aron to kill his other Aspect. We can find a little cabin somewhere, hide out from the world, and just live together, taking each day as it comes. Hell, we can wait for old age to decide things. Maybe Hedonism Aron’s anchor will go first—a likely scenario since he—or she—has got to be affected by his master’s pleasure-loving slant. Maybe we just let fate sort things out.
But…that’s not who my Aron is. He can’t sit by and wait for life to happen. He has to make things happen. He has to go to battle because it’s part of who he is. He’s war. It’s not just about winning and controlling which Aspect re-ascends to the Aether.
It’s about Aron being a war god. I have to accept it, because I have to accept Aron as he is or not at all.
I understand it, even if it fills me with terror.
So I take Aron’s hand and link his fingers in mine, and gaze out at the battlefields below. “He’ll be hiding his anchor,” I guess. “He’s going to want him close enough that he can keep an eye on him, but far enough from battle that he won’t get hurt. That means he’s probably somewhere in one of those tents.” I gesture at the sea of them in the distance.
“Or he’s put him in armor and is hiding him in plain sight. It might be worthwhile to see if any of the soldiers remains behind when the others surge ahead.” Markos moves to the other side of Aron, gazing down at the field.
I look over at my Aron. “What would you do?”
“I’m Arrogance,” he answers simply. “I won’t think the same as he does. Did he pick his anchor because it was a soldier that volunteered? Is it a wench he wanted to bed? Or did he simply have no other options like I did?”
“Oooh, burn on me,” I tease. “Just call me Last Resort Faith.”
Aron flashes a playful smile in my direction. “I’ve come around to liking how things turned out, though it probably would have been wiser to pick someone who knew how to carry a sword.”
And who he didn’t want to stick his dick into constantly. I mean, I get it. For a god of battle, a wimpy girl like me is a bad call. I have no muscle strength, I can barely sit on a woale for a few hours without bitching about it, and I’ve never used a bladed weapon. I’m a poor choice. A sitting duck.
No one will ever care for Aron as much as me, though. No one. I’m the best woman for the job.
A horn sounds from down below, and the men line up. We watch atop the distant cliff as the men bellow out a cry, a narrow bridge is dropped over the river, and then they surge forward to attack the keep. Ladders are produced and just as quickly destroyed by the men crowding the ramparts. Trash—and hot oil—are thrown down on the enemy men, and on and on it goes. They’re not getting a toehold in the slightest. It seems senseless to me.
Then, off to the side, a massive keep gate opens on the far end of the river. Men ride out on horses—the first horses I’ve seen since I arrived here—and carry spears. They’re deeply tanned, with long, flowing hair, and scream war cries as they raise their spears into the air.
“The Cyclopae,” Aron murmurs.
As I watch, a group of Adassian warriors split off and approach the Cyclopae riders, who surge across the water farther down the river and then regroup on the far side. One of the Adassians steps forward, flinging his cloak off and then brandishing an axe with a flourish. He stands on the ground before the others, and