Above the corpse who was a general no more, Arminius's eyes were in brief fury, carrying an immense rage. Then, with a blink, that momentary anger was gone, and in replacement was a childish innocence that filled him again. That of regret. The blade that slit his enemy’s throat was a familiar feeling, as if he had relived the moment that was forever carved in his soul. Struck by a memory that he should not have had, his mouth trembled as he lowered his sword that slipped out of his hand and thudded onto the ground, its blade absorbed by the viscous mud. In awe, unalone in the feeling, the spectating army of the Rus fell silent. With the last whistle and the last voice that sounded assured of victory, their eyes were dried of humor which was originally what they thought of the battle: a joke. Instead, nightmare materialized, replacing advantage with disaster. But the death of the general came with it a loss of sense. The Rus hounded the culprits and raised their malicious blade thirsting for revenge. They advanced, but not without resistance. The Lecher who were no more baffled by the occurrence than the Rus were restarted hostilities as if what was promised by the colonel and the general had been forgotten. A battle broke out on the edge of the field. Deaths happened, and heads were clobbered. However seconds from the beginning of the chaos and disorder, a thunderous voice herded both factions into their pastures.
“Sheathe your arms, men!” A Confederate colonel took command when no one else could. “Betray not the word your general gave!” It came a time when he had to remind his men of the pact formed mid-battle, the legacy of the third general, Rzhev.
The army stared at him as he rode out from the masses. Upon seeing his armor and the white steed beneath him, whether they were those who recognized him from his image or through the impression he had on the troops who did not, his appearance alone struck dread in their hearts who soon found themselves unwilling to cross him. They sheathed their swords and rested their spears, and in a moment, their loyalties had been converted to that of the colonel. Order had been brought to the Confederates who retreated a pace backward, away from the earth that had been soaked in the colonel’s aura. The battlefield was filled with his air. As he gently tugged on his reins, at a careful distance, he hawked the every movement that his enemy made. But it was apparent that their war spirits had not yet calmed. The battle fought on elsewhere and their sounds, although distant, was layered over the silence. The colonel looked over his shoulder and observed, holding his other duty in the back of his thoughts for the time being.
Recovering from their fight of survival which had concluded so abruptly, the squad of the Aelon rose behind Arminius and Florian and found the lone Rus mounted before them. Enthralled by his grace, he was noble however unlike that of the third general. There was a sense about him that was humbling, his demeanor ever changing with every thought that came to him. The mind of the young man worked, often contemplating. When the colonel returned to his adversary, the squad was put on guard. His eyes were neutral despite his however ominous red irises. He dismounted from his steed and struck the shoe of his glaive in the soft ground that formed around the shaft and held the polearm still. Nearing them, the colonel halted after a few moderate steps, within audible reach but at over two swords’ length. His focus was curiously on Arminius alone for a while before he turned his eyes to what was the remains of Rzhev laying between them. Wordlessly, he looked up at the lancer, as if gesturing for him to seal their pact. Hesitant, Arminius did not move. Florian noticed that with neither the lancer nor the colonel budging, he had to complete the battle himself. Sighing, the Lecher tread around the body of the general and knelt beside the head which was clasped tightly within his helm. Its neck was gashed awide with his spine visible from his opened throat. He raised his saber and cut his blade into the lump of flesh, swiftly severing the head from its body. Lifted up by the helmet, the head was held out for the Rus to see as Florian stood. The colonels exchanged the Aelon’s trophy, Rzhev’s remains were raised high, his face for all to witness. As verified by his troops, they could not deny that it was indeed the third general, the second-in-command to the Summer Lion felled by a lowly lancer and a mid-ranked officer.
The Rus pivoted around, letting the thousands who watched the battle unfold know, “As promised, a day of respite shall be granted to the victor!” Messengers slipped away from view to notify their commanders as the colonel announced.
Not knowing what else they could have done, the defeated Confederate observers mumbled, speaking with buckets of questions that were met without answers. They had moved past their disbelief but many were still clueless as to what orders they should follow.
Rather than addressing his men, the colonel let them be and chose to allow them idle, with greater concern over the soldiers before him than those behind. “Rest assured, I will guarantee that your terms are met.” He vowed, knowing that it would be hard for either party to trust the other as enemies. “At least, for now, as these blood-hungry men fall under my temporary watch.” Glancing to his side, he was certain enough that Rzhev’s troops were professional enough to be contained and controlled.
“You have my gratitude, honorable sir.” Sensing his upbringing, the Lecher thanked eloquently. “May I ask for your name?” Florian was curious, but more so than that, it was to make note in his list of chivalrous souls who he might find himself needing to negotiate with in the future.
On returning a slight nod, the colonel replied, “Regulus von Eos.”
With his ask answered, Florian placed a hand over his own chest and tipped his head in a slight bow before spinning around and retreating from the other noble’s audience. Convinced by the promise that the colonel made on the safety of their retreat, the Lecher hurried to his squad, but more importantly, the corporal he was sworn to protect. Their voices were close, however were muted by the lancer’s ears. No other voice nor sound could snap him awake, staring at the headless general whose death he had dealt. The scent of blood lured him in and the whispers of his soul haunted its killer as it awaited judgement. A peculiar eifer lingered around the boy that had always caught the attention of Eos. It was only then when they were both alone that the colonel was able to say his speculations.
Seeing in his eyes were colors of despair, he asked what Arminius felt needed to be asked every instance he ended a life, “Do you feel that you have wronged?”
The sudden question woken him, throwing him off the saddle of his contemplation, without an apparent reason for why he cared to ask. He could not formulate an answer that he longed to speak about. But when he looked up at the colonel wordlessly, the lack of light in his eyes were proof enough.
Eos bent down, although his armor was restricting. Honor-bound to a nation, he chose not to kneel even if it would be easier for his task, he reached down and picked up Arminius’s sword by the base of blade. Its edge had been chipped and the cheap metalwork that forged the weapon had unrepairable nicks and bends that had been disfigured by the heat of the lancer’s eifer. The body of the sword, that could not contain nor harness well the power that surged through it, was like the boy who could not contain his guilty sense of murder.
Towards someone as young as a middle-schooler, to be as low ranking as any of the thousands of footmen around him, Eos seemed more intrigued by his ability. “What is your name, soldier?” Doubting that he was anyone but a simple infantryman, he asked.
Knowing that it was something that he could answer at least, the lancer lowered his head. “Arminius Reichner…” His response sounded less proud.
Eos paused, his fingers tensed. The sword began to slip out of his hand when he regained consciousness and caught it before it fell. Returning the frail weapon to its rightful owner, his face carried a sense of humility, whose eyes were turned to the soil at the lancer’s feet. Arminius noticed the surprise that befell the colonel but he did not dare venture to ask why. He simply received his sword before a flood of questions would submerge his mind however much it did pique his interest.
From a weak smile, letting out a soft chuckle, the Rus did not think he was capable of breaking his own usual sternness. “Never have I thought I would ever come across a Reichner in this lifetime,” Eos spoke, sure that he knew who Arminius truly was, out of pleasant admiration. “No less, on the battlefield.”
The boy’s frown grew from that of concern to confusion. Perhaps unrealizing that his own curiosity had taken a terribly silent turn, Eos’s encounter had become slightly awkward. But it did not put the lancer particularly out of place whose simple wonder of who this Eos might be aroused his interest too. From a short meeting that they have found themselves in, Arminius had noticed from his minimal gestures that he was not another regular colonel, nor was he exactly an ordinary noble. Most of all, the knightly man may have displayed a moment of chivalry before the Lecher colonel, but that seemed to be a farce also.27Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5yFoShYCng
His gaze remained pointed downward, avoiding the lancer’s eyes as if his rank superceded his on every dimension, militarily and socially. “I am intrigued by what fate has prepared for you, Prince Regen.” Eos called him by a name he had never heard of, however not out of randomness, but with purpose and reason in doing so.
Stunned, stoked by the flames of nonexistent memories that attempted to resurface, Arminius’s vision of his past was all a blur. There was not one scene in his mind that was clear except the reality that was occurring before him. Eos placed his hand on his heart, a greeting reserved only for nobles that Florian had done, and tipped his head. He turned around and marched off, returning his glaive into his hand as he clipped the head of his general onto the saddle of his white steed with tainted fur over a blood pool collecting beneath two flesh trophies. Raising himself onto his mount and fitting his feet into his stirrups, Eos caught a last glimpse of the lancer and turned towards the opposite horizon, away from the Aelon fort. The steed did as commanded when its reins were pulled to the side and was given a kick. Riding off from where he came with heads swinging beside him, the colonel directed his troops as he sailed onto the bridge of command again. The Confederate army could only bitterly withdraw with the victor clearly decided. But as with any war, they had experienced just one battle that could do little to influence the outcome of the conflict. A fire stirred in Eos unleashed a bait tricking history into another direction.27Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfxgncmgRRD
