Wrong

She had believed in right and wrong, a long time ago.

She had believed that things were either wrong or right, and that it was possible to choose between them. She hadn't known about corruption, or greed, or power. She had believed that you could make a choice, a choice between right and wrong and that your choice would be the right one, and that all the right decisions would make all things right and everyone would be happy. She knew the wrong decisions because they made everything wrong and made everyone unhapy, or worse, hurt someone.

Things had blurred, after the first battle.

He had done what she thought was wrong, done things to the supporters of the Dark Lord that still gave her nightmares, done it with a grim determination in his eyes that frightened her, and a fire burning inside of them that made her shiver. He had done things that she knew were wrong, but everyone had said they were right because they had been done to the wrong people, the bad people. And she had went along with it.

But then things had become even more wrong. He had done things against the Dark Lord that were not right at all, and were things that the Dark Lord might have done, and it was then that she had first heard the word that chilled her bones: corruption. He was being corrupted by power, they whispered in the darkness of the inns after all the lights were dim, when she had taken them drinks and listened to half-snatches of conversation with fear in her heart, and she knew they were right. But everyone still said he was a hero, and that the Dark Lord was the villian.

As if it made a difference, after a while.

He had started to say things that were very wrong to her, saying things like we must use his own methods against him, saying things like we must attack their families the way they attacked ours, things that were not quite wrong and not quite right and somwhere closer to the other end. And she began to become afraid of him, but he had coerced her gently, with smiles and eyes that burned brilliant green, with soft kisses and soft touches, and she had been silent and gone along. But the good people in the inns whispered, whispered that revenge was not the way this should be, and that we should fight them with honor instead of cheating with their own dirty tricks. She knew cheating was wrong, but the crowds still praised him as a hero. So she kept silent.

She tried to talk to him, once, tried to tell him that this was wrong and that he was above that, that he should be doing the right thing instead of what he was doing. He looked at her with a cold stare and gold her not to be silly, that he was doing the right thing and those people were the bad people and they were the good people, with the air of one explaining things to a five-year-old. If she thoought he was wrong, he said, maybe she was really one of the bad people.

She had been frightened by that. But he had smiled, that narrow-eyed, cool sharp smile, and she had not said anything. And people still said he was right and the hero, and that they were wrong and the villians, but the whispers in the inns grew and the late night meetings grew longer and lengthier as the good people told her their fears over glasses of ale she brought them. And she was scared of the bad people, but she had begun to fear the good people a little bit more.

We can't trust anyone not sworn to us, he had said. We have to make sure everyone is loyal, and that no spies can slip through. We have to interrogate everyone, he had said, and they had acted, but it had been mostly out of fear. He had started to experiment with some of the things the bad people did, and she would tell him that they were wrong, but he would only say that he was using the enemy's weapon against them. She had told him that he was becoming the Dark Lord.

He had brought her out before the people, then, hatred shining in his eyes, telling them that she was against them, that she was one of the bad people, and she was wrong and she needed to be locked away. She had protested and begged, and only then did he allow her to hide away from them, his devoted mob. And deep in her heart, she knew that she was right and he was wrong, but somehow it didn't matter as much as staying alive.

He had become stranger, then, a stranger to her, a stranger with burning green eyes and a pale face, his skin as pale as the Dark Lord's with the scar on his forehead, the scar that was on the banners across the world as the crusade against the enemy. She didn't know quite who the enemy was, and no one could tell her, but she didn't dare ask him. He would say that they must go after the enemy, the bad people, and that they must attack them before they could strike back. Nevermind the fact that all those with marks on their arms had been killed, that there were none left, that the Dark Lord was in hiding with no followers left and the dark creatures had been destroyed. We must destroy the enemy, for they are wrong and they are bad.

People didn't cheer for him as loudly, then, and people started to look at her differently, and the meetings late at night had become longer but fewer, as the last few good people disappeared, picked off by his mob. He began to look at her with suspicion brewing in his eyes, and he didn't smile now, not at her or at anyone else. He was always scowling. But people did as he said, for he was right and the hero, and she was confined inside more.

She wore pretty things to please him, and these days when he visited her he looked like the Dark Lord, eyes of green like a cat's, the one mark on his forehead burning brighter in his quest for justice and freedom and good. And she knew in her heart that he was wrong, now, and she looked at him with dead eyes that were empty of all emotion. It didn't matter to her much, anymore, for he was wrong.

But he had won.

And the winner was always right.