"When a war happens and concludes, the victors often return in a glorious parade, with loot and trophies to showcase from their victories. Heroes were made into legends, and a nation rejoices.

Yet behind that joy, lay the widows and the orphans, who would never welcome their husbands and fathers home ever again, or the parents who had lost their child to the cold embrace of the afterlife.

These people often see the true nature of the matter, that the celebrations were mostly a facade, a way to improve the morale of the nation's populace, and so often kept their grief private, and took pride in their loved ones' sacrifice for the nation.

Yet at times, there would be fools that do not understand this, and truly see them as happy occassions. These rulers often became addicted to the feeling of victory, and would soon lead their nation to ruin. One way or another." - Marzban Hasdrubal Saleem, Military commander of the Assadun Emirate's Gupta district.

After witnessing their leader's severed head raised high in Aideen's hand, the raiders lost their ferocity. Their lines broke, and some even tried to escape, to run back where they came from. Less than a hundred escaped, as what remained of the Vitalican army showed no mercy and slaughtered the rest in rage.

The victory - if it could be called that - was pyrrhic at best. When Diarmuid received the casualty reports he almost fainted from shock at just how many people had died that day, on the unnamed hill they fought and shed blood on.

His own Death Guards and the militiamen he brought along got off relatively lightly. Nearly forty of the over hundred Death Guards laid down their lives in the battle, and of the three hundred militiamen, barely half remained, while the injured outnumbered the healthy amongst the remainder.

Of Faerghus' detachment… not many had survived. Less than thirty of the templars were found alive, while of the militia, maybe fifty survivors were found amongst the field of corpses on the backside of the hill. Notwithstanding the loss of Faerghus himself, that is.

The loss of the eldest son of the Fiachnas, one groomed to be the next leader of the templars, and well loved by the populace, was not a loss to be taken lightly. Diarmuid grieved for his brother's death, and yet, he was even more worried about how his father would react should he receive the bad news. His father was old, and he feared that it might drive his health to take a turn for the worse.

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With many thoughts in his mind, Diarmuid went out to look for his little sister. He knew exactly where to look this time, and went to the large makeshift tent where what healers were left were busy treating the wounded that survived the battle.

Aideen was amongst them, working furiously as he expected, as she treated injured soldiers - many of which had injuries that would have been fatal had they been handed to a less competent healer - one after another.

She had draped herself in a fresh tunic this time around - though it was more because she had no other option, since her fight with the raider leader had left her tunic as little more than shreds of blood drenched clothing - although the front of said tunic was completely covered by blood from the people she treated by now.

Diarmuid watched his sister work as he silently observed her. He was familiar with his little sister, and especially familiar with how she would throw herself at work to handle grief. Their family once had a wolfhound as a pet that the children really loved, and when he died of old age, Aideen - just seven years old at the time - had thrown herself into her studies during the day, before she cried herself to sleep at night.

Though the few survivors mostly had heavy, life threatening injuries, this time there were fewer of them, and before the night had fallen, Aideen had finished with the last of them.

"Brother?" She asked blearily as she turned around and saw her elder brother there. She was dead tired, from having overused her magic to its limits again, but knew that there must be something that caused her brother to seek her.

"Walk with me, sister," Diarmuid said as he looked somewhat sadly at his sister. He was well aware that had his sister not killed the raider's leader - something he tried to do himself and failed - and avenged their elder brother, the tides of the battle might have turned for the worse.

Less than a hundred of the two thousand elven raiders escaped alive, but as many Vitalicans lay dead from the battle, which has simply devastated both sides. At the end, had the raiders not had a morale breakdown from the death of their leader, it might have been them who won the battle instead.

"You did well," said Diarmuid in praise to Aideen as they walked. "Those who were injured would make it thanks to you, and those still alive… we all probably owe you our lives as well."

"It wasn't enough," muttered Aideen with a low, dejected voice, not loud enough to be overheard by others than Diarmuid. "It wasn't enough! Elder brother died because we couldn't come to his aid fast enough!"

"It's not your fault, Aideen," said Diarmuid as he embraced his sister into a hug, fighting off his own tears at the same time. "You did what you could… it's just that, sometimes not even our best is enough…"

Aideen just leaned into the warm embrace, laid her face against his broad chest, and cried. She wept like a child and let her tears flow as her brother reassuringly embraced her.

Diarmuid allowed his sister to cry her grief out on his chest, as he struggled with his own. He needed to present a strong face to the remaining soldiers, and didn't have the luxury of showing his grief yet.

The time for grieving, was yet to come. No news were forthcoming from their father so far, and the raids might not be over just yet.