Sometimes, on clear nights in the mountains, Votzhem had thought about the extremist uprising. He had left Jahuar back when their movement was just whispers in the trees and ambushes on the paths. Aside from being ambushed himself, once, Votzhem had had no part in it. He had chosen no side in the fight. Instead, he had hid with his wife and newborns in a remote mountain village, in a sense choosing Iroia over the turmoil of his tribe. He had known it was the right choice, then, but in the mountains, his Sister injured beside him, he wondered whether it was really the right thing to do. Should he have fought?

Of course, he could not have raised his swords against his sisters. Even though they had spread lies about hybrids, called him a weakling and a mistake, and outright attacked him, to face his sisters with the intent to kill was anathaema. Blasphemy. So he had abstained, taking himself out of the fight entirely. It had not been his place.

But it was the principle of the thing and, back in Jahuar, though, he knew that he could not make that choice again. He had decided to devote himself to Aisha and, though it hurt him to the very soul to say it, he knew that when his Sisters next stood in battle, he had to stand with them. No matter what they fought for, or who they fought. He was, after all, a warrior of the Alkidike, a child of Aisha whatever the tribe might think of him. It was right there in the name – a warrior must go to war, just as a fish must go to water or a bird to the sky.

He would stand with his tribe. But when Iroia went to war, where would she stand?

This question came to him suddenly one morning, as he trimmed and re-braided his beard after a thorough scrubbing of his face. Iroia remained asleep, not one for mornings, and in the brief Jahuaran 'silence', he realized that he did not know the answer.

He was aware that she – and Ruelash, her obnoxious partner – were veterans of the Oban war. They had fought together on that battlefield, sewing terror amidst the Obans from the shadows and shedding their fair share of blood in the midst of that chaos. He could imagine them now – knives from the shadows, ending lives... ferocious storms of blades, slicing through their foes... It was one of the things that made Iroia beautiful, that ferocity, that cunning duality.

What if there was a war, and she chose to fight in it? What if the side that he had to support, his own tribe, was not the side that she was on? If he had to fight her, what would he do? Could he be a warrior when his own wife was his foe? Could he face her in battle? He did not think he could. Of course, she probably could take him – easily beat him, probably – in a fight, (or would even choose not to fight at all) but that did not change the philosophical nature of the question.

Could he fight his own wife? The woman he loved? The mother of his children? Could he fight her family, her friends? Her? Would his ability to do so make him less of a man? Would his inability to do so make him less of an Alkidike? He could only pray that such a situation would not occur, but there were no guarantees. The Alkidikes had allied with the Earthlings against the Obans and the Extremists, but who knew where their allegiances would fall next?

The will of conquerors lay restlessly sleeping in the hearts of the Amazons. For now, they got along with the other races, but in the end, they believed that Tendaji was theirs. The Extremists were just the ones that had spoken up and done something about it. What if others did the same? What if the Alkidikes invaded other lands en force? What if the Alkidikes decided to purge the hybrids, a not impossible option? What side was he on? What would the sides be?

He finished his braids and looked at the ungracefully sprawled form of his sleeping wife. He could never hurt her. Never again. He had made that promise to her and to himself, and he could not break that promise. But, of course, situations might arise where his promises and duties would pull him in different directions. Whatever might come in the future, he would have to make his decision and take his side in the moment. He had no other choice. War could not, after all, be planned for.