We'd become quite the little warriors since we'd left the Academy...er, well, I was quite the little warrior. Herc had kept growing...and growing. Now, he towered over me and most everyone else...and he'd filled out some, too. He'd let his hair grow long to his shoulders...and I'd started keeping mine a bit shorter, so it didn't get so much in the way. Anyway, the point is, we were warriors! Yeah, I know, after the Snow Bear incident, Hercules has refused to carry a weapon...but, believe me, whenever we were on a battlefield, he made good use of any sword or lance that found their way into his hands.

Soon after leaving the Academy, we'd set off across the Aegean to join Agamemnon and his crowd at Troy. The siege had been going on for almost nine years at that point...oh, I know, the balladeers and bards have Herc there from the beginning, but he wasn't...and I should know. But, Hercules was already beginning to be a legend...and over the years, we've heard a lot of stories about where he'd been or what he'd done...there was a lot that was true...but, a lot that wasn't, either....It's odd, you know, how it's the mean lies that seem to last the longest...terrible things about how he'd go crazy, or how brutal he was...he wasn't ever any of those things. For all that Herc's the strongest man to ever live, Hercules is, at heart, a gentle man...a man who always prefers peace to war, reason to force. I guess gentleness and reason don't make good stories.

Anyway, we got to Troy in time to see Patroclus fight bravely in Achilles' armour...and die, killed by Hector. Ajax was truly amazing, incredibly courageous, in his bold undertaking to recover Patroclus' body. And, we'd seen Hector die in his turn. He might have been a Trojan...but, there was no doubting his courage. He'd known he would die, it was prophesied that Achilles would kill him...and he'd fought anyway. These were the heroes that the bards still tell about...heroes to inspire legend and myth. Ajax, Achilles, Hector, Patroclus and Hercules...men who made history...ordinary guys like me just lived it.

Herc and I were part of the team who went in with the wooden horse...and I mean 'in'. I still can't believe how Hercules folded himself up and scrunched into that critter. Well, you've heard to beware of Greeks bearing gifts...we were the gifts. I have to tell you, if you've been at war with somebody for ten years, taking every chance to kill each other off, you really do have to be a bit suspicious when they just seem to disappear...and leave you a great, big wonderful gift. Doesn't stand to reason that somebody who hates you would want to give you a present, does it? Well, the Trojans were endlessly optimistic, I guess...they hauled that horse right inside their walls...walls the Greeks hadn't been able to broach in ten long years. I heard the Trojans who survived the final battle were the ones who started the line about Greeks bearing gifts...they sure paid a high price for that painful lesson in human behaviour.

Anyway, you all know our side won. After the fall of Troy, Herc and I hitched a ride back on Agamemnon's ship, and we all got off at the harbour in Corinth. It was the closest dock to Agie's place in Mycenae... nice fortress, that...high on a mountain, surrounded on three sides by other mountains, overlooking the broad, fertile plains below. Too bad he didn't live very long after he got home... Clytemnestra wasn't all that happy to see him back. Cassandra had told him not to go home...but, he just wouldn't listen. I gotta tell you...that was one weird family. Everybody was always killing off everybody else.

But, I digress. After we got back from Troy, and since we were so close to Corinth, Herc and I decided to stop in to visit a while with Jason...and were just in time to sail with him on the Argo to get the Golden Fleece. Now, that was an adventure! Oh, I know...you hadn't heard I'd been on that voyage either. Well, I can explain that. Archivus, the official chronicler, and I got to be pretty good friends...and, well, he liked to tease me by pretending he couldn't remember my name...or, if he could remember, he claimed not to know how to spell it. We kidded around a lot, had a lot of fun pretending to not get along...but, the result was that I didn't get into the record books. Sigh. Turned out to be the story of my life...well, maybe, 'story' is the wrong word, since I never seem to have ended up in any of them...whatever.

Once we got back from that adventure, summer was beginning to fade. Herc and I decided to take some time off from the warrior business and head on home to Thebes for a while. Turns out, we got there just in time to fend off an attack by the Chaldikkii. They'd staged a number of raids over the years, getting increasingly bolder as they moved further south into Boetia in general, and Theban territory more specifically, until they'd worked themselves up to trying an all out war to conquer Thebes. Actually, I think they moved south because they weren't about to take on the Macedonians who held the territory north of them. However, why they were attacking Thebes wasn't really the point just then...when Herc and I arrived, the women and children were all inside the Cadmea...the new fortress...and our friends were in the midst of the battle. Well, warriors that we were, we just joined right in.

There's something to be said about having home court advantage. Men fight harder when they are the only thing between the enemy and their families. We beat off the Chaldikkii...and, I guess we could have left it at that, but the generals had gotten tired of the years of raids and decided to teach the Chaldikkii a lesson they wouldn't soon forget. Seemed reasonable at the time. Next thing you know, we're chasing them north, over the pass at Thermopylae and down into the plains of Lamia, where many of them had moved right in, bringing their families and creating settlements, as if they had always owned the place. Well, you know they'd come from a lot farther north...north of the Olympian range as a matter of fact, on the border of Macedonia...but, they'd been drifting south for years, taking in more and more territory. Quite an aggressive little bunch, the Chaldikkii.

But, they weren't doing so well on this campaign. Between their losses outside of Thebes, and the way we had harried the life out of them, literally, all the way back north, their numbers were sadly diminished by the time they made their stand at Lamia. Gods, but they fought hard...I have to give them that. The battle raged for three days. The first day, we could hardly see for the dust that was churned up by the horses, chariots, and thousands of foot soldiers charging at one another and grappling as if their lives depended on it...which, of course, they did. By the second day, though, the field was muddy with blood. Both sides had taken serious losses by then...but, we outnumbered the Chaldikkii at that point, so we could better afford the losses on our side. I know, I know...I've since learned that any loss is one too many...but, back then, I wasn't much more than a stupid kid, still caught up in being a warrior..still believing war was glorious.

The third day finished it. We gave no quarter and they fought to the last man. We wanted to make certain the Chaldikkii wouldn't threaten Thebes again for a good long time. And we succeeded. They wouldn't have the strength to wage an all out war again for at least another generation. In the immediate aftermath of the battle, we all felt pretty good...the winning side normally does. Nothing like victory to lift the spirits. We gathered up our wounded and tended to them...and we buried our dead.

The next day, some of us started to understand the impact of what we had done. The fire of adrenaline was gone. The exhilaration of battle, the thunder of horses hooves, the clang of steel against steel, the screamed challenges, fighting, grappling, testing skills and strength, putting your life on the line...that's the glory old warriors reminisce about. Nobody tells stories about the victims... about the disabling injuries...about the thousands who die, who never get to go home again...about having to gather them up to bury or burn their remains to avoid the danger of illnesses that seemed to result if corpses are just left to decay. The endless flat plain outside of Lamia was littered with corpses. It took two days to clean up the aftermath of that horrendous battle...and the pyres burned for yet another day and night.

And then, finally, it was time to head home. Oh...I forgot to mention...I'd taken a bad cut from a lance along the outside of my right leg...so, I wasn't moving all that fast. It wasn't that bad, really...would have been a whole lot worse if Herc hadn't pulled me out of the way and knocked out the man who had attacked me. But, even with Herc letting me lean against him for support (okay, okay...even with Herc half carrying me), I couldn't keep up with our departing army. After a while, we stopped trying, and just drifted further and further to the rear, until they'd gone past us. We weren't worried...it wasn't as if there were any enemy warriors left around to give us a hard time.

We'd drifted to the east, heading closer to the coast, mostly just to get out of the ruts and churned up earth left in the wake of our returning army. Walking was hard enough without having to stumble over ruts. Anyway, we'd gone far enough east that we were off the main trail...which is what brought us to the little settlement late that afternoon.

There were only about ten tiny thatched and weathered cottages clustered together, as if to keep each other company, a large communal barn, some rickety sheds and outbuildings (from the smell and noise, some housed pigs and others housed chickens), a fenced corral which held a few cattle and quite a few goats, and a shrine to one god or another. The fields around the settlement were ripe with grain, ready to be harvested. Not a wealthy community by any means...but, prosperous. It looked from a distance like the people who lived there must live good lives. Peaceful, tranquil...away from the fires of war.

To be honest, I wasn't all that sorry to see a bit of civilization. My leg had been bleeding again, and we needed some supplies for bandages. And, a settlement meant food and something to drink without having to hunt for it...I really didn't feel up to hunting that afternoon....

So, instead of skirting the settlement, we wandered right in. I wouldn't exactly say they were glad to see us. There were about twelve or fifteen women and at least thirty kids of various ages who turned from whatever activity they had been engaged with, or, realizing there was a new novelty in town, wandered out from their cottages, or from the barn, to stare at us.

It took a minute for it to sink in. There weren't any men. The women all looked kinda drawn...some had obviously been crying. The littler kids looked scared...and the bigger kids were trying to look tough...there was anger in their eyes. Some kept looking past us, as if expecting someone else to come along...as if waiting for someone to return. We stopped near to the closest cottage...there was a handy log there, so Herc eased me down so I could sit and take some of the pressure off my leg. We looked at them...they looked at us...and then we finally understood.

"Oh gods," I heard Herc murmur under his breath. 'Oh Gods' was right. You know, never once in any of the battles I had fought, not once had I thought about the families of the men I had killed...you don't, somehow, when you're fighting for your life. When we'd congratulated ourselves at destroying the Chaldikkii, so that they wouldn't cause trouble for at least another generation, we didn't think about the fact that that generation was, right then, just kids...kids who no longer had fathers.

We had wandered into a Chaldikkii settlement. We were staring at the widows and orphans of the men we had helped kill...had maybe killed personally. This was the other face of war...the face that survived..... suffered....endured. These were the real victims of the battles men fought. This was the 'next generation'.

Suddenly, I didn't feel quite so proud of being a warrior anymore.

I heard Herc clear his throat...I guess he'd decided that somebody had to say something. "Um," he started, "my friend is hurt and we wondered if you might have some bandages...and maybe some food...or even water...." Up until then, until he spoke, they really didn't know who we were...but, his accent gave us away...we were Greeks...we were the enemy. We were the men who had killed the men who once lived in this village.

They looked from him to me...I was the 'hurt friend' and I could see them take in the bloody bandage on my leg. It wasn't a good feeling to see some of them smile. They weren't friendly smiles...they were smiles of satisfaction and retribution. Not a good feeling at all. Worse in some ways than the frozen looks of anger and hate...looks that said they couldn't care less if my leg fell off.

"Uh, Herc," I muttered, "maybe this wasn't such a good idea...maybe we should just...leave." 'While we can,' I thought. They might only be women and children, but there were a lot more of them than there were of us...and I don't think either us wanted to even think about fighting with them. Gods..neither of us could even imagine hurting them...I mean, more than we already had.

Herc nodded at my suggestion, and was reaching down to help me back up, when one of the older women stepped forward. "No," she said with a weary voice, "you don't have to go. We'll help you."

This statement provoked a flurry of grumbling, shouted protests and dirty looks, but she held firm...it was pretty clear she was the matriarch...and was now the head of this little settlement.

"We don't want to cause trouble...." Herc replied. Bitter laughter greeted his words. He sighed. I could tell he felt as bad as I did about this. Sick really. Killing an armed and angry enemy doesn't leave you with the same feeling as killing someone's son, husband or father. But, that's who we'd killed...exactly who we'd killed. Gods, you don't want to know what that feels like...you really don't ever want to know.

"Lad, you've already caused the trouble," the matriarch responded. "But, the battles are all over. Bring your friend and follow me." With that, she turned and led the way to the largest of the small thatched cottages...two rooms instead of one. Herc leaned down to help me up, and we followed her...which meant we had to walk through the hostile crowd in front of us. Some blocked our way...didn't want to let us through. She turned back, said sharply, "It's over, done...stand aside...let them pass." A narrow path cleared, and we moved forward...it was eerie, like running a gauntlet....only it was silent, and their weapons were their eyes and faces...their bludgeons the looks they gave us.

Finally, we came out the other end, and followed the woman into her cottage. Inside, it was very neat, very clean. There was no wealth or luxury here...the table was bare wood, stools took the place of chairs. There was one set of shelves to hold chipped pottery plates and mugs...and one cupboard in the corner, a pail of water beside it. There was a small hearth in one wall...a cauldron and a kettle on the stone footing. She went first to the shelves to pick up a bowl, then over to the cupboard. She pulled some clean rags out of a drawer, and bent to dip the bowl into the water. Turning, she saw we were still standing, just inside the door.

Impatiently, she waved at the stools. "Sit," she said, as she came back toward us. Putting the rags and bowl of water on the table, she knelt to unwrap the bandage. Feeling awkward, I moved to help, but she just slapped my hands out of the way. I looked at Herc, and he shrugged back. She was clearly a woman who was used to getting her own way...and one who didn't hesitate to help those who needed it, whoever they were...whatever they had done.

The leg wasn't all that bad...more a gash than a cut. She dipped a rag into the water and sponged off the blood. Looking at Hercules, she pointed over to the shelves. "On the top shelf, there are small bowls of herbs...I want the one that's third from the left." Herc turned and reached for the one she wanted...the cottage was so small, he hardly needed to take a step to move from the centre to the shelves along the wall. I noticed he looked a little hunched...the ceiling wasn't all that high.

She took the tiny bowl from him, shook some of the dried herbs into her palm, then applied them to the wound. Finished, she wrapped my leg with a long, clean rag. "There," she said, tying it off, "that should do it...in a day or so, you'll be able to leave it open to the air...it's a clean wound, no infection...you'll do fine."

"Thanks," I said, "I...I really appreciate your help...especially given....well, just that...." I stumbled over my words, my thoughts, 'given I helped kill some of your family', 'just that I'm one of the enemy.....' This was not an easy conversation. She looked up at me then, a sharp, knowing look...there was pain in her eyes...but, strangely, there was compassion, too.

"It was war," she said, then, as if that said it all. "And, now, it's over. You'll rest here tonight and we'll see how you are in the morning."

Herc and I both protested at the same time...no, we couldn't impose...we'd just be off...no need for her to do more...she'd already been so helpful. She just waved an impatient hand at us, cutting us off. "Don't be foolish," she said, and then she lit a fire in the small hearth, moving a cauldron over it...to reheat the soup it held. While the soup was heating, she turned and pulled a loaf off one of the shelves, took down three bowls, three mugs and picked up a knife...and then carried everything back over to the table. She sliced the loaf, moved to stir the soup, then set the kettle to boil to make tea. Her movements were sure, economical ...and she wasn't the least bit selfconscious despite having two strange warriors in her home.

If she'd been one of the generals, I'm not sure we would have won the battle.

We didn't say much while she prepared the spare meal. Herc and I kept sending looks at one another when she wasn't watching. Looks that told the other how bad we each felt...how awkward it was...how we wished there was some way to make it better. But, there wasn't. It wasn't long before she'd ladled up the soup and set it before us with the slices of bread, and the mugs of hot tea. It was good...but, to be honest, we weren't very hungry.

It was dark by the time we finished the meal. She'd lit some candles...and Herc helped her clean up... rinsing the bowls and mugs, drying them with yet another clean rag...replacing them on the shelves. She gave him an approving look, as much as to say, 'Your mother raised you well,' then she disappeared into the other room, reappearing moments later with an armful of homespun blankets. She set them down on the earthen floor, in front of the hearth.

"Sleep well," she said, then turned back to her own chamber. "Thanks, you too," we responded, reaching for some kind of normalcy...trying to match her calm acceptance of the situation.

Herc shook out the blankets and helped me down to the floor. "Gods, I feel terrible," he said, quietly, a kind of haunted look in his eyes. I nodded...I knew exactly how he felt. "I...I never thought about the kids...." I responded. He swallowed and looked into the dying embers of the fire. No, on the battlefield, we hadn't thought about the kids.

He laid down, and was silent for a long time. Then, "They need help, Iolaus.....the harvest...."

"I know," I murmured back. We'd taken their men...the least we could do was bring in the harvest, so they wouldn't starve that winter.

Thinking back now, I believe it was even harder on Herc than it was on me...I hadn't always been one of the 'good guys'... there were those years when I'd been a thief. But, Herc...well, Herc had always believed he'd fought on the side of right, the side of truth...but, 'right' and 'truth' were different here...we were young...neither of us had ever really stopped to consider the consequences of our actions before...the 'truth' was, we'd killed their men...there was no way to make it 'right'.

My leg felt a lot better the next morning...the stiffness had gone, and there was no more bleeding. She'd been up with the dawn, and had unwrapped a round of white cheese, cutting chunks off with a knife, then sliced the rest of the loaf, while we cleared the area in front of the hearth, and set the kettle to boil for tea.

Over breakfast, we told her we intended to stay a few days...to help them bring in the grain. She looked at us strangely for a moment...clearly surprised. "You don't have to do that," she murmured, subdued.

"Yes...we do," Herc responded quietly. He looked tired...I don't think he'd slept much the night before.

Blinking hard, she stood and cleared the table, her movements brisk and efficient. Then, she paused and looked at us. "Thank you," she said, "we can use the help. My name is Ansalla."

Hercules nodded in acknowledgement. "Ansalla...I'm Hercules...and this is my friend, Iolaus."

She nodded, her gaze abstracted, as she thought about our offer. "You'll stay with me," she said.

Herc shook his head, "No, that's alright...we can stay in the barn. You've been kind...but, really, we don't want to impose....."

She grinned then, unexpectedly, a teasing light in her eyes. "No, I suppose not...and the hay will be a softer bed than the floor...."

I snickered. She was quick, no doubt about it. Herc just blushed.

Standing, I decided we might as well get started....the grain wouldn't come in by itself. "Ansalla...if you could show us where you keep the scythes...."

"Of course," she nodded, and led the way out of the cottage, heading toward the barn.

We'd gotten so comfortable with her, the animosity of the others hit us again like the shock of cold water, on an even colder morning. They were all up, of course...the day starts early when your survival rests upon your own hard work. They stared at us, with silent but palpable hatred, as we moved into the dusty yard. Ansalla stepped in front of us, then addressed them all. "They're staying a few days...to bring in the harvest."

"We don't need their help!" a woman called back angrily.

"Yes, Crista, we do," Ansalla said firmly, then continued on to the barn, waving at us to follow her.

It took us most of the next week to bring in the harvest, even with Herc's capacity to do the work of half a dozen men. The fields had been planted by a dozen men...with the expectation that they would all be there to bring in the resulting crop. It was hot, dusty work...and my allergies kicked up quite a fuss. I was sneezing regularly by midmorning the first day. Herc would just grin at me every time I erupted. Easy for him...demigods don't seem to have allergies. Sigh. But, so long as we were in the fields, it was okay...the others stayed away from us, watching from a distance...their hatred more remote. It was when we hauled in the carts with the grain that we could feel their eyes on us...feel their frustrated, hopeless anger, the scourge of their hostility.

But, as the days went by, most of the folks there seemed to get used to us, even if they didn't actually accept us. The animosity died to indifference...and the little kids actually got to the point of being curious and following us around. Herc and I both liked kids...and I had a knack for making them laugh. But, the older kids stood off, eyes wary if no longer angry. They were learning that while it's easy to hate a faceless enemy, it's harder when the target of your desired revenge is someone who is fairly ordinary...and, who is doing their best to help you. We weren't monsters...even if, in the dark places of our own hearts, we felt that we were.

But, it had gotten easier...and, we'd all started to relax a little. Or, at least, most of us had...but, not everyone. It was late afternoon, on the fourth day...I was unloading a cartload of grain in the barn when I heard a shuffling sound behind me. Turning, I saw it was Crista, followed by four children...three boys and a girl. And, she was holding a knife.

I just stood there for a minute, holding the pitchfork in my hands. Then, I sighed and set it down against the side of the cart. Crista had never become indifferent...if anything, her hatred had burned hotter as the days went by, until we could feel it radiate from her.

"What do you want, Crista?" I asked, keeping my voice steady and calm...watching her eyes...angry, hurt eyes filled with hate.

"I want you dead," she said flatly.

I nodded... 'ask a stupid question,' I thought, a little hysterically .... "Crista," I began, only to be cut off.

"You killed my husband!" she cried, her voice harsh with bitterness. "You and your friends...you killed them all....with no mercy....."

I sighed. "It was war...and, well....we didn't start it...." Lame, really lame. We didn't have to chase after them...we didn't have to kill them all.

"You think I care who started it? You think it matters....my man is dead....my children don't have a father anymore...." she was caught between anger and grief, her voice rough with unshed tears.

I raised my hands, wanting to placate her. "I'm sorry," I said, quietly, "Herc and I are both sorrier than you'll ever know..." I turned a bit, edging back...only to stumble over the damn pitchfork. That's me, alright... graceful to a fault. Off balance, I couldn't do much more than twist away when she lunged at me. She laid open a long gash on my upraised arm...which had luckily gotten in the way of my chest.

She pulled the knife back, ready to stab out again.

"Stop!" I shouted at her, "Stop it! You don't really want to kill me...."

"Don't I?" she challenged, her eyes glittering. I didn't want to fight her...I didn't want to hurt her. She took advantage of my hesitation, and lunged again. My brain might not have wanted to hurt her, but my body wasn't just going to stand there and let her kill me. I swiveled sideways, rolling on the balls of my feet, and grabbed her wrist, hard....

"Don't Crista....you really don't want to know what it feels like to kill someone...trust me...it won't help...it won't take away your pain or grief...and it won't bring your husband back...it would only give you nightmares. Believe me...I know." I spoke quietly, urgently...understanding her pain...not really knowing what to do about it.

There were tears in her eyes...tears of anger, and hate...and utter despair. I looked past her, at the children...at the next generation...and I could see the hostility in their eyes...not yet hate, but it wasn't far away. Holding her arm, I twisted her around, so that her back was pressed against me and we were both facing the children. She still had the knife gripped tightly in her hand.

"You want something of meaning...of some worth...to come out of all of this, Crista?" I asked, my tone a mix of harshness and infinite sadness. She just struggled a bit, didn't answer. "Look at them, Crista," I commanded her, then, "....look at your children. You want to do something with your pain and your loss? Well, do your grandchildren a favour. So they won't have to be orphans, because their fathers were killed in a senseless war....so that your little daughter there, won't have to be a widow. Don't teach your kids how to hate, Crista....teach your children that war is no answer...that it's futile...that revenge only brings more pain, more loss, more grief...more tragedy. Teach them to live, Christa...not to die."

She sagged against me then, crying softly in her pain. No mother wants her children to die...or sets out to make her yet unborn grandchildren orphans. She let the knife fall from her fingers. I held her a moment more, wanting to give her some support...wishing I hadn't been the one to make her children orphans. But, then, I let her go, mumbling again, "I'm sorry..." and moved past her, out of the barn.

Herc had just come in from the fields with another cartload of grain. When he saw me come out of the barn, holding my arm...when he saw the blood...he abandoned his cart, and loped quickly to my side....his eyes filled with concern. "Iolaus...what happened?" he asked, alarmed, as he reached out to check my wound, and steady me, in case I was ready to fall over from shock or something. Or, maybe it was my white, drawn face, and eyes suspiciously glittering with tears, that made him think I needed support.

"It's okay, Herc...nothing serious...it...it was an accident...." I reassured him.

"Accident?" he repeated, frowning....looking past me at the barn...seeing Crista and her children in its entrance.

"Yeah," I said. "C'mon...let's go to Ansalla's place and get this cleaned up. Okay?"

Herc brought his gaze back to mine. My friend was no idiot...he could guess what had happened. But, he caught the look in my eyes, the imploring look that said, 'Please, Herc, don't make a big deal out of this....' so, all he said was, "Okay, Iolaus," and keeping one arm around me, he turned to help me across the yard to Ansalla's cottage.

It wasn't a serious wound...little more than a scratch, really. Ansalla made short work of washing away the blood, powdering it with herbs, and wrapping it securely with a piece of linen. "You want to tell me what happened?" she asked.

"No," I responded. She held my eyes for a long moment, then nodded and turned away.

We finished with the harvest two days later...there wasn't a lot more we could do for them. It was time to go home.

Ansalla put together a small care package of bread, cheese and fruit for our journey. She hugged both of us, murmuring, "You're good boys...."

I think she meant it as a kind of absolution. She was a very kind, very wise woman...strong and compassionate...she understood pain and sorrow...and she knew how to forgive...how to move on with life.

We hugged her back, grateful for what she had given us, then turned to walk away from the settlement.

Once again, we faced the gauntlet...this time, less hostile, but just as silent. We'd taken their men...left them widowed and orphaned...they weren't about to forgive us...and it didn't look like they'd forget. I caught Crista's eyes, but she looked away, biting her lip. But, then, she looked back, gazing unblinkingly, unflinchingly into my eyes....and, I didn't see the hate anymore. She gave a slight nod, as she pulled her children close to her side.

She'd heard my words....maybe her children wouldn't have to die, as Ansalla's had....you see, we'd learned that Crista's husband had been Ansalla's son.

We were quiet on that journey home...we didn't talk much...didn't need to. Never again, did Herc or I fight with an invading army. Oh, we do fight...sometimes it's unavoidable...but, always in defence, never for conquest or revenge. Mostly, we've tried to mediate between warring factions...tried to find another alternative to the senseless slaughter of war. Neither of us has ever forgotten the faces of those women and children.....we'd come to understand that there is no glory in war...only pain....and the ones who suffered most were the most vulnerable, the women and children left behind. From that time on, whenever we've fought, we've remembered them, we've fought for them...to safeguard the innocent and protect those who do not have the weapons or skills to protect themselves....

Ansalla may have granted us absolution...but, we never have forgiven ourselves.

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