Oliver raged against the natural direction of defeat, just as his men did. His own defeat – his dying heart. The last few petals of that sacred flower that was his soul. He burned as hotly as he could before the last of them were to fall and hit the ground, ridding him of the prospect of observing beauty for all eternity.
"Steady yourself," Hod warned him, noting the look in his eye. "This position favours us. Tiberius does not understand it well enough to break through."
"Do you understand it, Minister?" Oliver asked him, anger in his voice, though Hod was not that anger's intended target.
"The men find themselves cornered," Hod said. "They fight as if there's nothing to lose – like soldiers in a castle, knowing that the prospect of surrender is not an option. They'll fight to the deaths, and they will hold nothing back. Tiberius' cruelty, and the fear he evokes, you've used it against him."
"I have?" Oliver said. "The men fight of their own accord."
