The War to End All Wars (5)

Few circumstances erode the human psyche as profoundly as the battlefield.

And regrettably, humanity’s adversaries specialized in the very magics that manipulated those fragile minds.

“Over there, at that window!”

-Bang!-

“The Captain’s been hit! A Demonic mental assault! Those with psychic defenses, employ them immediately if you don’t wish to share his fate!”

“Retreat! Fall back!”

“The enemy’s onslaught is too formidable. General Andrei may have been correct – this is madness!”

“I understand your trepidation, but view this as a strategic withdrawal to secure future advances. Glasgow’s reinforcements are imminent. If we can hold until then, opportunity shall unveil itself.”

Thus, some remained unhinged amidst the relentless attacks, while others recognized the strategy’s derailment.

The council swiftly requested Glasgow’s intervention.

The frontlines retreated daily, the Demons launching a frenzied assault towards Antrim.

While some senior officers defiantly proclaimed, ‘With resolute will, we can endure! Any territorial losses shall be promptly reclaimed!’ numbers never lied.

Incompetent yet diligent efforts might inspire admiration, but assessing intentions and industry as adequate consolation when lives hung in the balance proved utterly worthless.

“These very casualty figures may have been downplayed from the outset. We cannot trust such miscreants.”

“At this rate, the events of decades past shall be replicated. Let us request further Glaswegian reinforcements.”

While humbling to solicit aid against the Demonic adversary, survival took precedence.

And as if awaiting the proposal, the kingdom swiftly dispatched troops and supplies via rail and trucks within the blink of an eye.

-Thud, rumble-

“Ah, so this is the fabled Antrim.”

“I’ve heard the night scenery is exquisite – might we glimpse it?”

“You harbor grand dreams. Any witnesses would assume we’re on a picnic excursion.”

“Attention! We shall proceed non-stop from the capital straight to the warfront! Savor these potentially final visions of tranquility.”

“Aahh……”

“May we all return alive. May the Divine favor Her Majesty and our souls with mercy.”

Some voices advocated diverting troops to the most precarious frontline sectors, but:

“We shall halt here.”

“No further advance? Yet I hear intense combat rages ahead.”

“Our forces remain insufficient. Piecemeal deployments will only invite annihilation by the Demons. Do you comprehend?”

“But our preparations seem adequate……”

“Imbeciles who assumed as much have perished en masse in this very Belfast.”

The Glaswegian contingent exhibited relatively fewer signs of mental contamination.

Unburdened by delusional hero-worship or historical complexes, Freugne’s influence predominated.

Hence, as planned, they began fortifying defensive lines leveraging geographic advantages.

While swayed more by personal sentiment than rationality, Freugne ensured Erinne’s unit received ample provisions.

And the Glaswegian forces amassing slightly behind the frontlines universally exhibited meticulous preparations – dispatching them ill-equipped would only consign them to sacrificial obliteration.

In essence:

“We have arrived, so disembark. Any stragglers?”

“No, sir!!”

“Erinne, could you lend assistance? Let us commence by erecting the tents and ensure nothing was misplaced en route.”

“On my way!”

Erinne had joined the unit freshly arriving in republican territory.

---

The duel between hero and Dark Lord had relegated to folklore status.

This was particularly pronounced in Belfast, the previous hero’s homeland.

The Glaswegian kingdom, perceiving the hero as a foreign entity, either presented the bare facts or reinterpreted the exploits of ancient kingdom-born heroes as fables.

National pride complicated endorsing outside heroic figures too enthusiastically, so merely conveying the moral of defeating the Demons to attain peace sufficed.

Unburdened by such constraints, Belfast proactively propagated and embellished these tales.

Compiling even obscure apocryphal anecdotes of dubious provenance, the narrative variations became innumerable.

‘Now children, what lessons did we derive from today’s story?’

‘Mama, I want to become a hero when I grow up!’

‘The teacher asked about career aspirations, so I said I’d be a hero!’

Such prattle proliferated among the republic’s youth.

Though born and raised in the kingdom, Erinne could overhear similar tales during her recent interactions with the republican forces.

Once a universal childhood dream, harsh realities ultimately compelled its abandonment.

Erinne could not simply disregard these stories, for she had once harbored comparable aspirations.

“I had envisioned charging straight to the frontlines to battle, yet here I am, awaiting potential obliteration in this pit.”

“You too? I shared that delusion.”

“Well, coming from Belfast, we all probably indulged similar fancies. Those Glaswegian lads over there, who can say?”

One soldier chuckled sardonically.

“I wonder when this war shall conclude?”

“Not until one side is utterly annihilated, I’d wager.”

“But might it not reach an appropriate cessation point, like the previous conflict?”

“I’ve heard we’re being steadily pushed back. Could that be accurate? The Captain insists such rumors are unfounded, and our defensive entrenchment here refutes that, does it not?”

“Shh, silence! Lest we both face disciplinary actions. Such discussions must occur in private.”

Erinne had painstakingly mastered rudimentary Belfast speech, her Cardiff schooling proving advantageous in this regard.

Though lacking any official interpreter duties, she occasionally served as an ad-hoc translator within the unit when required.

Observing the two chattering Belfast soldiers, Erinne redirected her gaze towards the increasingly ashen heavens – an ominously foreboding hue.

She had once aspired to greater heights as well.

Youthful caprices she too had indulged, naively believing even modest Martop accomplishments akin to her aunt’s readily attainable.

‘Erinne, what do you wish to become when you grow up?’

‘…Just a mage, I suppose.’

‘Ah, following in Lady Freya’s footsteps?’

‘No. Just… perhaps an ordinary mage.’

Yet Erinne had reached an age realizing her inability to become such an extraordinary individual.

Or rather, her extraordinary surroundings had necessitated premature maturation.

“…Now is not the time. Back to work.”

Erinne resumed her duties.

Though currently distanced from the frontlines, rumors circulated of the Demons descending upon their location within weeks.

This realization instilled a measure of apprehension, yet an inevitability she had already resolved to confront by volunteering, fears notwithstanding.

And wherever Erinne went, Ull invariably followed.

“So when might we anticipate combat?”

“Captain, is he always like this?”

“Leave him be. That’s simply his disposition – enabling it alleviates the burden.”

Rank, it was said, shaped individuals – and this private who had prematurely acquired a grizzled veteran’s demeanor now spent his days lazing about, habitually lounging with a protruding belly.

Yet for reasons unclear, his direct superior seemed perturbed by his presence, as did his comrades.

The rationale was straightforward:

Like freeloaders instinctively sensing apex predators, those with life experience could perceive the colossal presence looming behind his seeming indolence.

While superiors contemplated contriving accelerated promotions to dismiss him elsewhere, higher echelons vehemently opposed such measures.

As Ull’s continued field deployment proved unavoidable, this conundrum only exacerbated the disarray – an inevitable consequence.

Thus, Ull grew increasingly restless.

Yet he was not alone in this predicament.

“Her? The alleged only daughter of Ceres Martop……”

“Allegedly, for she is not an only child. Yet that seems a minor discrepancy.”

“But why is she here? She could have avoided this entire ordeal.”

“Quite remarkable, indeed. Some resorted to outrageous contortions to evade deployment.”

“…Why are you staring at me?”

A decade had passed since Freya established her Martop, with Edan subsequently joining her endeavor.

In that time, Ceres Martop had ascended to arguably become Londinium’s preeminent institution.

And unlike Ull, Erinne possessed an unmistakably formidable backer.

While her communication skills surpassed Ull’s catastrophic deficiencies, enabling functional interpersonal dynamics, her interactions inevitably elicited guarded undertones from others.

If Ull’s curt, one-word replies stemmed from karmic repercussions, Erinne’s predicament seemed somewhat undeserved.

“Where are you headed?”

“Where else? To work.”

“Ah, fortuitous timing – I was growing restless. Allow me to accompany you.”

“…Must you?”

Did the adage not proclaim that individuals inevitably consorted with their own ilk?

While Erinne remained uncertain if that expression applied here, their shared Londinium origins rendered this foreign camaraderie unsurprising.