UnWar

Having fought to just outside the main central hall of the fort castle, Elliott has to admit the Tennison who remain number better than he anticipated they would at this point. To boot the Un’s are flagging, more than ever they are slow, sloppy, easy targets to fell.

A quick dodge followed by an upward swipe carves the back of an Un’s armour, severing all their tendons. The Un flops to the floor like a fish out of water, then proceeds to wriggle and writhe. A quick downward stab brings a swift end to them. There is no mercy offered and the advance continues.

Un fly, are cut down, voices boom, roar. The Tennison breach the main hall. The Un, as you would expect, are waiting. Immediately they charge. The Tennison, take position, wait. Just before the clash the Tennison guards drive forward on the offensive. The Un are shocked, take aback by this. It is clear they are not trained like the Tennison are to attack when is least expected. Still, they are formidable with their size and strength. Regrettably for the Un’s, strength is not enough. Strategy is key, and Tennison quickly push the Un’s back.

Several dozen Un lie dead in stark contrast to three of the elite Elvira Collective soldier warrior caste. That puts the Tennison guards’ numbers at a hair over forty. Still enough, Elliott calculates while pirouetting, slashing, stabbing, swiping.

Victory is nigh. The end is here. Elliott can taste it now where he could not previously.

The Un are too few to prevail. The knowledge makes Elliot feel euphoric, for it means Elvira has triumphed over these savages, outcasts, uncivilized tribal barbarians.

A smile slips across Elliott’s face. He continues, alongside his brethren, to push. No sense in letting up now. The Un’s offer no formidable resistance any longer. Rather, they crumple, fold, backpedal, retreat.

Alas, from the main hall there is no escape. It is a dead-end. A room which lies at the very deep heart of the fort castle built by the ancestors, the originators of the ideals upon which the Collective is founded.

Elliott feels warmth, pride, from the fifteen who birthed what still stands this day. Against the might of madness, the treachery of fools, the greed of bloodlines believing themselves owed a place, a position without effort or sacrifice.

Once the Un are defeated there will be no more war. Of that the grey haired Tennison is certain. He finishes disembowelling an Un who dared attack with twin daggers. The insult had to be met with the same level of disdain as was attempted.

Two more Un’s collapse upon him, Eric and Erin come to his aid. They shield him against the blows from opposing sides. Then the three strike back. Like a whip they lash. The Un’s fall but refuse to relent, and so they are butchered.

With the great Elevation Thrones looming large on their plinth, forged from Ironstone, Tennison Steel and sealed in Dread Bark, Elliott cuts down two of the maybe thirty Un’s who are still breathing. Not all are combat capable. Maybe a fifth are injured in some manner or another, with limbs missing to hinder their combat effectiveness. It matters little. They brought this upon themselves. Chance of surrender is long departed.

What will soon come shall be their penance for starting this war; for slaughtering so many without fear of repercussions. Here and now they will learn the error of their ways, but they will be afforded no mercy, no chance to repent.

Elvira demands retribution and it will be paid in the purest of currencies, blood. For the Un’s are the defeated. They are not worthy, their aims not righteous. If they were then it would be the Tennison who would fall, but that will not be what transpires. And from this the Collective will rebuild, better, stronger, as will the elite soldier warrior caste.

The Tennison encircle the remaining Un’s on three sides, to their back are the Elevation Thrones. Elliott will give them their due, they are not begging, pleading. It means they are wise enough to know mercy will not be afforded. He holds respect, a modicum, for them for that.

Suddenly a war screech fills the air. Elliott is forced to dodge to avoid being carved in sections as Alecia, progenitor of this war, heralds her arrival. Accompanying her are a dozen Un’s. They wear dark armour of black-red. To Elliott’s eyes said armour appears to shimmer, distort their outlines. He cares not for this treachery. He and the other Tennison will carve these additions just the same.

 Victory is written in the cards, in the future and time cannot be changed. What will be, will always be and what has passed will remain as such.

Still, Elliott has admit these new Un’s are far from battle weary, or strength reliant. Rather, they show real promise. Pity they have chosen the wrong side, to betray Elvira, the Collective.

Spinning, stabbing, feinting, blocking, Elliot rages against the Un’s. Alecia meanwhile carves a bloody swathe through her foes. She is formidable. Elliott, as Lord Justice, should meet her might with his own. The other Tennison can deal with these Un’s.

Alecia however, appears to be too much for the other Tennison. If they were not battle weary it might be different but alas this is not the case. Yet, it changes nothing for even Alecia, Warbringer, has felled only two of the elite guards. Elliott, dispatching a third Grand Un, slides across the battlefield to meet Alecia’s blade with his own. He blocks, is forced back. She is far larger up close than Elliott had considered. Yet, it matters little. Victory is something he can taste on his tongue in the moments prior to him blocking and then parrying the progenitors slashing volley.

With great precision and zero wasted energy, Alecia evades only to then deftly throw herself back toward the Lord Justice. He meets her prowess with his own. Then he breaks her guard. She is sent backpedalling. Suddenly there is a whistle. From nowhere more Un’s appear. It is not possible, it cannot be.

Quickly the Tennison become all but overwhelmed and forced onto the defensive.

Beating several fresh foes back, Elliott searches for Alecia, all he spies are those of his caste falling to blades, drenched in blood, drowning in death. Acceptance is something Elliott refuses to swallow, so he batters the Un’s back. Kicking and whaling he carves a narrow blood soaked path of his own. The sixteen remaining Tennison form around Elliot; they attack as a unit, in time with perfect precision lethality. Un’s topple, crumple, spill all around. The Lord Justice spies Alecia finally; she is on the edge of the plinth occupied by the Thrones. His face twists into a snarl of disgust. Victory is still the Collective’s. He continues to taste it. Warbringer and her Un’s are only delaying the inevitable. They surely must know it too, which is why the progenitor is no longer partaking in combat; coward!

Does she intend to surrender? Fool is she does. No quarter will be given. Surely she must be aware?

 She could run.

Where? How?

I do not know but seeing as she appeared from nowhere she must have her ways.

She does not.

Then how did you not know of her presence until she was almost upon you?

Another whistle, the Grand Un’s fall back to Alecia. They line up on either side of her. It’s a baffling display.

All other Un’s lie dead or dying.

“It’s over! The Collective have prevailed! Elvira stands proud!”

Alecia offers nothing in reply and so the Tennison, all seventeen of them, attack. They get within striking distance when the taste in the air changes.

It had already been changing! You simply refused to admit it!

No. Is it the gas? Surely not!

It isn’t the choking gas. The air is clear, clean. It is something else entirely; something far more worrisome.

Elliott loathes it for he no longer tastes victory, feels it. He does not understand. Then he realises he is advancing no more. Rather, he is stuck, held in place. He issues demands to his body. He feels nothing, it’s as if his mind is entirely detached, isolated.

Such is not possible! This has to be some trick; some vile deceitful pathetic scheme. It will not work! That is what Lord Justice Elliot Rineheart swears while continuing to fight fruitlessly against this disabling madness; even as the Grand Un’s slaughter the other Tennison who remained.

Of this savagery Elliott catches snippets in his peripheral vision. When he makes efforts to look upon the heresy it disappears, vanishing as if having never occurred. Impossible!

Soon the central chamber of the Halls Of Domination are clear with only he and Alecia remaining. Even the bodies of the fallen are present no longer.

Warbringer utters no words, does nothing except stand, watching him. He does not understand it.

All of a sudden his body begins to react. Filled with joy and praising Elvira, Elliott swears he will put an end to what the Un’s, Alecia, have done. Then it dawns on him he is not advancing. Rather, he is moving in reverse. He issues orders to his body for them to stop this, but feels such signals are scrambled. Then his mind begins to flow in reverse, it’s painful, agonisingly so.

Terror grips the Lord Justice, he knows time reversal is not possible and yet when finally his head can pivot he sees only the past becoming the present and then finally lost, as if it is future once more.

Throughout all this Alecia smiles, her vibrant green eyes watching. You see this story was never about the Tennison, the Lord Justice, The Collective, nor their victory. No, this is the story of Alecia, progenitor of the UnWar, averter of ruin and manipulator of the future.

You might wonder how this came to be her destiny, her fate. Well, that I will tell you. But first you must close your eyes, forget all you think you know of what has transpired here, for it is not set in stone. Nor should you believe this to be the only potential future. Only fools believe in absolutes and you should be aware that Alecia has never been a fool.