Standing over the corpse who was a general no more, Arminius’s eyes were briefly in fury. Then, with a blink, that momentary anger was gone, and in its place 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 humour, which was originally what they thought of the battle: a joke. Instead, their nightmare had materialised, but the death of their general came with it a loss of sense. The Rus hounded the culprits and raised their malicious blades, thirsting for revenge. They advanced, but not without resistance.
The Lecher who was no more baffled by the occurrence than the Rus, 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, 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!” He had to remind his men of a pact formed mid-battle, a legacy which the third general, Rzhev, left.
The armies stared at him as he rode out of the masses. His appearance alone struck dread in the hearts of the armies, whether they recognised him or felt the impression he had made on the troops who did not. 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 paced backward as he gently tugged on his reins at a careful distance. He watched every movement his enemy made, and it was apparent that their spirits had not yet calmed. The battle was fought elsewhere, and their sounds, although distant, were layered over the silence. The colonel looked over his shoulder and observed, holding his other duty in the back of his thoughts for then.
Recovering from their fight, the squad rose behind Arminius and Florian and found a lone Rus mounted before them, enthralled by his grace. He was noble, though not in the same way as the third general. There was a sense about him that was humbling, his demeanour ever changing with every thought that came to him. When the colonel returned to his adversary, the squad was put on guard. His eyes were neutral despite his 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 upright. Nearing them, the colonel halted after a few 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 the remains of Rzhev lying between them. Wordlessly, he looked up at the lancer, as if gesturing for him to seal their pact.
Hesitant, Arminius did not move, and Florian noticed that with neither the lancer nor the colonel budging, he had to complete the task himself. Sighing, the Lecher tread around the body of the general and knelt beside its head, which was clasped tightly within his helm. Its neck was gashed wide, with his spine visible from his opened throat. He raised his sabre and cut into the lump of flesh, swiftly severing the head from its body. The colonels exchanged the battle trophy, and Rzhev’s remains were held up high, his face for all to see. 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 colonel pivoted around, letting the thousands who watched the battle unfold know that the pact still stood. “As promised, a day of respite shall be granted to the victor!” Messengers slipped away from view to notify their commanders as he announced it.
Not knowing what else they could have done, the defeated Confederate observers mumbled, having moved past their disbelief, but many were still clueless as to what orders they should follow.
Rather than addressing his men, the colonel allowed them to 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, these blood-hungry men fall under my 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, sir.” The Lecher thanked him. “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.
“Regulus von Eos.” On returning a slight nod, the colonel replied.
With his question answered, Florian placed a hand over his chest and bowed his head before spinning around and retreating from the Rus’s audience. Convinced by his promise, he hurried to his squad, but more importantly, the corporal he was sworn to protect. Their voices were close, however muted by the lancer’s ears.
No other 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 often caught the attention of Eos. Only when they were both alone was the colonel able to express his speculations.
Seeing his eyes were full of despair, he asked what Arminius felt he needed to be asked every time he had ended a life. “Do you feel that you have wronged?”
The sudden question woke him, disrupting his thoughts and leaving him unsure of why he would care to ask. He could not speak what he longed to say, but when he looked up, the lack of light in Arminius’s eyes was proof enough that the colonel had guessed right.
Eos bent down, although his armour was restricting. Honor-bound to a nation, he chose not to kneel, even if it would be easier, and he reached down and picked up Arminius’s sword by the base of its blade. Its edge had nicks and rolls, and the cheap metalwork that forged the weapon was unrepairable, disfigured by the heat of the lancer’s Eifer. The body of the sword had not been able to contain nor harness the power that surged through it, just like the boy who could not contain his guilt.
Eos appeared intrigued by the ability of someone as young as a middle-schooler, who was as low-ranking as any of the thousands of footmen around him. “What is your name, soldier?” Doubting that he was anyone but a simple infantryman, he asked.
Knowing that it was something that he could at least answer, the lancer lowered his head. “Arminius Reichner…” He said, sounding less proud.
The colonel paused, his fingers tensed, and 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 venture to ask why. He simply received his sword before a flood of questions would submerge him, however much it did pique his interest.
From a weak smile to a soft chuckle, the Rus did not think he was capable of breaking his 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 concern to confusion as their encounter took an awkward turn, but it did not make the lancer feel out of place. Rather, his curiosity about who this Eos might have been stirred him. Arminius had noticed that his subtle gestures marked him as more than a regular colonel or ordinary noble.
His gaze remained pointed downward, avoiding the lancer’s eyes as if his rank superseded his on every dimension. “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.
Stoked by the flames of nonexistent memories that attempted to resurface from his mind, 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, as 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. Lifting 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 his enemy’s fort. Riding off from where he came with two 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, one battle cannot conclude a Calamity.389Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRai5wpIiKf
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