Heirs of the Gods

Ch 34: The war of numbers

When war was spoken of, it was usually in numbers.

The number of men in the troops, the amounts of horses used, the types and quantities of weaponry. Even death was reduced to numbers. Reading five hundred casualties on paper never seemed appalling. In the simplified nature of a book, it lost its shock value.

In the grand scheme, death was just a little number printed on a page.

Ella knew that Hollyhock would be regarded as a turning point in the war between Fae and humans when they wrote of this many years later. The first of many losses. The scholars would write about the eight hundred villagers out of the population of two thousand that had died, of the gruesome nature of their deaths.

But when they wrote of it, the war crimes and grievous injustices would be downplayed into soft, palatable facts. The event would be stripped of its horrifying nature until it was a collection of numbers, names and dates.

Numbers could never convey reality. Numbers would not convey the way the land still reeked of scorched earth and the putrid stench of death, even after the bodies had been cleared. Numbers would not convey the chilling sight of the piles of rubble, where houses had once stood. A stray shoe between overturned trees, a muddied rag roll poking out between what had once been a home, the burned lands where gardens had once grown.

Death, as much as it was the base of war, was not spoken of like it should have been. It was made into a cold, abstract concept. It was never described in the way it wormed its claws into the lives of everyone and nestled deep in the bones of what had once been, refusing to be ousted. Death left a smear impossible to remove, tainting everything around it.

No, books never spoke of what the actual horrors of war were. They would never be able to describe the chilling way a mother's wail made Ella's stomach roil and the hairs on her nape stand on edge.

While she sat in front of Lady Acer, blood running cold as the woman sobbed softly, Ella finally understood what war was.

As the news of her daughter's whereabouts set in, the woman sobbed into her husband's chest, weeping mournfully and clutching onto his arms. Lord Acer, for his part, remained utterly blank. This was not to be mistaken with lack of emotion, not at all. Ella could recognise a forced stoicism. A strength carefully constructed to maintain sanity and the will to continue. She did not miss the way his hands quivered or the hitch in his breath.

When Callan had asked if she wanted to accompany him to the Acer estate to personally deliver the news about their daughter, Ella had hesitated.

She'd never interacted in such a way with the Gerrathean nobles. Much less in an official capacity. But despite her anxiety, she hadn't been able to refuse. It was an important duty. The Acers deserved to be told in person, and Callan had taken on that responsibility himself. Ella could only admire this. If Callan could make time to do this, how could she not do it as well?

But now, sitting in their parlour as Lady Acer sobbed pitifully, a different reality had sunk in. No amount of training could have prepared her for this. This was not the role she was accustomed to. This was not mingling over tea and making small talk. This was to be a harbinger of grief, the duty of facing actual victims.

Callan waited until the woman's wails died down into soft whimpers and wordlessly handed her a linen handkerchief, which she accepted with trembling hands.

He turned to Lord Acer, "This announcement is not what I would have liked to deliver. I would have liked to come here with news of your daughter's safety, not bearing ill news. But you may rest assured, she will be returned to you."