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What the Arenirians called justice, the Arcadians called inequity. What the Arenirians called greatness, the Arcadians called smallness. What the Arenirians called beauty, the Arcadians called unattractiveness. Why was there so much disagreement in the universe blamed on a lack of openmindedness? In truth, the reason was the prejudices of our armies, and with that, the pretension of their soldiers. Many a day I have overthought the realism or unrealism of our ‘neutrality,’ and I came to a simple conclusion: we are never neutral, but what is neutral? Our guns; they kill us or they kill others, and its all at the holder’s will.
It had been a long morning and the Arcadian soldiers inhabiting the encampment that was only three miles north from the Legal District was eager to invade their unknowledgeable foe. There was a shortage of food and water and, with the Legal District being the only neighbouring area with a river /and/ being the centre of Arenirian operations, the spirits of the Arcadians were higher than ever. They had been travelling the galaxy for one year and, with that, the planet on which the Legal District stood for two months. The soldiers were exhausted, their backs ached and they were tired of seeing screens and dreams; they wanted gunfire, they wanted a bloodbath in which the Arenirians lay.
“I see it in the distance, not far, I’d say one and a half miles.”
“Yes,” said Commandant Reversonal, observing the District with a pair of military binoculars. “I would say so too.” Their automatic measuring equipment had been lost in a previous battle. “Men, we are near the Legal District! Get into your uniforms and equip your guns. This is going to be our last invasion, and this will gain us control of Arenir.”
It took thirty minutes before each soldier was lined up on the field shoulder-to-shoulder with the Reaper-8 in their arms, looking over the apparently uninhabited Legal District through the gold-tinted glass of their bulletproof visor. Before them, Primarch DystraTala stood with a pistol sheathed unto his belt along with a steel sabre and in his arms a Reaper-7. To his sides stood ten highly-trained dragoons, the marks in their armour gained from sword slashes gleaming in the wavering sunlight of Arenir. All that could be heard was the caws of distant crows that mounted the trees, watching the army await their invasion.
“Men,” said the Primarch, his voice hoarse. He towered over his army at a staggering seven feet, his armour consisting mostly of fortified bronze and gold-plated titanium. “This is the day we fight, the day the Arenirians succumb to our eternal glory. This will be the talk of the galaxy for millennia to come: the day when the Arcadians took Arenir and killed its Lord Paramount.” Some soldiers nodded in approval; others stood still with dignity and obedience. “For the duration of our country’s lifetime we have wavered from low and high, low and high. We have went through emperors unwilling to lead, and others who brought us to greatness. We have fought enemies unbeatable, but still won in the end. Make this another challenge, another symbol to represent our Federation. Make it so that when a man says ‘Arcadia,’ the other man says ‘the victorious.’ Onward!”
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Arenirian Perspective:
“31,000 of them, sir,” said Legate Henarius, his voice switching between scared and strong. “I fear we may lose. I have seen their armour and guns. Far better than ours...”
In his chair, Seviro Brenan sat and questioned the scenario. “How large is our garrison?”
”80,700, sir.”
“Then why are you so scared? We have the equipment, we have the men. They are tired, hungry, thirsty, exhausted. What do we have to fear?” Seviro had forced inspiration into his soldiers for the thirty years he had commanded the Arenirian army, however Henarius, who still had fear in his eyes, went pale.
“Sir...” he began, apparently struggling to find his next words. “This district is run-down and full of revolutionaries. Our guns are ancient, and our only armour is fur cloaks and - well - cloth.”
Seviro sighed. The pressure of the situation was high, the reality of it higher. This would be a loss, unless he came up with a superior battle tactic within the probable hour it would take for the Arcadian legionnaires to march to the district. But alas, he was no Alexander the Great; the city was unfortified, its walls made mainly of corroded metal and concrete. The Arcadians had it all. Modern armour, modern guns, you name it, they had it. But as long as Seviro of the House Brenan remained Arenirian Lord Paramount, the Arenirians would not go down without a fight. They were renowned for how long they fought, and what they died for, which, in the end, was /always/ Seviro.
“Man the battlements. Present each soldier with a rifle and see that justice is done to these raiders. I want our whole garrison armoured and at a post. Protect the CPs with your life, and even more-so the manor should be under full lockdown. In the basement you will find a control panel to activate its force-field and reinforce its doors. The code to the manor is eight four three seven five two six. Go, Legate.”
“At once, my lord,” Henarius replied obediently, his fear extinguished. He scurried quickly out of the room, leaving behind Seviro who observed a map of the district.
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Arcadian Perspective:
Arenirians had begun to shoot up on their walls, guns clasped in their arms and atop their heads helmets of the thickest steel, each engraved with the gold Brenan lion.
“FIRE!” the Primarch commanded, and following him tens of thousands of guns fired at the Legal District’s walls. For the seconds of the gunfire, the walls stood strong against them, but after a while they collapsed. The Arenirians fired back, their outdated guns crashing into the unprotected bits of the Arcadian armour and sending wounds into their flesh. “Gah!” the Primarch gasped as he clutched his arm, feeling a bullet lacerate into his blue-blooded veins. “Go, my warriors!”
Reversonal shot down and knelt beside his Primarch. In his patch he found a roll of bandages, but DystraTala looked at him with eyes which clearly said ‘leave me... this battle is yours now.’
“No!” cried the commandant, who fixed the bandages around DystraTala’s bleeding arm. “This is not the end, you will live!”
“Or will he?” Seviro cackled as the men around him fought. He wielded a sabre black in colour and long in length. He wore his most protective suit of armour: black and emerald, with spots of diamond in the what would have been weaker parts. “Only a king can kill a king.”
DystraTala whimpered, the blood soaking his bandages. “Kill him, Reversonal! End this war!”
Reversonal unsheathed his pistol and fired five rounds at the Lord Paramount, each bullet filled with anger, hatred and justice. He felt his brow sweat, but each time a bullet hit off Seviro’s armour, the Lord Paramount would laugh. “That’s a cute pistol, Reversonal.” Seviro ran forward and chucked Reversonal aside into the mud, then clasped his gloved hand around Dystra’s neck. “Say your last words and make them matter, DystraTala, for from this moment they will call you ‘Dystra the Dead.’”
“Here they are then, you brute,” Dystra managed to croak out, feeling the pressure of Seviro’s hand against his throat. “You ought to watch your back more often.”
A sword sliced directly through Seviro’s back, and the Lord Paramount hadn’t expected it. He stared at Dystra in shock as blood dribbled out of his mouth and through his chest. It must have been painful too, because he gave out a screech louder than anything he had ever seen before. As Seviro fell to the ground, Reversonal stood behind him and helped up his Primarch from the ground. The war was won.
Arenirian Perspective [5 months later]:
The Arcadians had won, and it was Seviro’s funeral. As the coffin went down into the dirty abyss, a stone grave read before it:
/Seviro Brenan, the Lord Paramount/
/The bringer of peace./
From a distance, Seviro watched, disabling his holographic device and letting out a sigh. He never gave up... but at the same time, neither did the Arcadians.
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