He gets an extremely flat look in return. "There is a difference between sacrificing your own life, for something you believe in, and being used as cannon fodder."
It's no coincidence that the hazy battlefield above him, the impossible future of Elias and Kahl fighting side by side, suddenly erupts in hellfire.
"Sometimes there is, and sometimes there isn't. Do you think they were not ready to lay down their lives to break the power of the Arameri?"
Yes, he had concealed his own plans from them; no, they hadn't wanted to give him the strength to end the world. But in the end, they achieved their goal and he did not, so it seems a bit precious to him to chide him for it.
For the first time, Zerxus himself changes in the light. His horns fade to afterimages, and his clothing shimmers - not into the armour of the First Knight but something he'd wear on his own time. Cloth spun by expert hands that would never weave again; buttons of polished brass cast in a workshop that's only ash and cinders now; a sky-blue cloak bearing the forgotten crests of both his cities.
"Did you consider, really, what you were taking? What you were using them to do?"
"I considered it longer than you've been alive. They wanted a war, despite not knowing what devastation even that would bring. I was not the one who entered that agreement too lightly."
But he did not lie. They wanted to hurt the Arameri enough to scheme and kill and die; he game them the power to do so. They did not ask what would happen next.
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Eventually, he accepts that Zerxus is as sincere as always.
"Okay. Like what?"
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"Like the High Northers. You made them sacrifices, in the end, not soldiers."
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It's no coincidence that the hazy battlefield above him, the impossible future of Elias and Kahl fighting side by side, suddenly erupts in hellfire.
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Yes, he had concealed his own plans from them; no, they hadn't wanted to give him the strength to end the world. But in the end, they achieved their goal and he did not, so it seems a bit precious to him to chide him for it.
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For the first time, Zerxus himself changes in the light. His horns fade to afterimages, and his clothing shimmers - not into the armour of the First Knight but something he'd wear on his own time. Cloth spun by expert hands that would never weave again; buttons of polished brass cast in a workshop that's only ash and cinders now; a sky-blue cloak bearing the forgotten crests of both his cities.
"Did you consider, really, what you were taking? What you were using them to do?"
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But he did not lie. They wanted to hurt the Arameri enough to scheme and kill and die; he game them the power to do so. They did not ask what would happen next.