Trearion is a fictional steampunk-ish world I'm writing up. I wrote a short tale that, while does not delve all that deep into the world itself, showcases a couple of characters within interesting positions. Hope ya'll like it.
Blades and thoughts
Traysworth and Barion had been at war for longer than anyone alive could remember.
One might claim that, as per fantasy cliché, the Empire was evil and bent on domination and Barion was merely the defenseless kingdom in a pointless war. Nothing could be further from the truth – the fact of the matter was that no one really remembered why the war started. And no one that cared to know was ever able to find out. Regardless, wars that go on for generations, or so the story goes, progress by sheer momentum: one side begrudges its dead enough that it can’t bear the thought of letting their foes win, and so like bickering children, the aggressions never ceased.
On that afternoon there was a battle like any other. Drums were pounded with vigor and trumpets signaled attacks, retreats and maneuvers. Sounds of war much like the clashing of swords, the firing of muskets and cannons, the screams of pain as one’s comrade fell to the ground. Oblivious to the chaos in their own fashion, General Winston Drake of the Traysworth Empire and Supremo Comandante Albieri engaged each other in battle. These two men had long transcended the stage where one’s fist or sword spoke for him; both astride their proud constructs (Drake’s a behemoth of flame, metal and fury, Albieri’s an elegant, verdant Forest Guardian), the two commanders led their troops like musicians trying to outdo each other. The ensuing symphony of destruction would be significantly more beautiful to behold if it only did not involve the feelings and lives and breathing instruments of death or thousands of men and women on a battlefield that had long been drunk with their blood.
Both had become so accustomed to each other’s strategies, customs and movements that the very act of waging war was like breathing to them.
And let’s just say breathing in the face of someone you do not particularly like, though you may begrudgingly respect, for hours on end wasn’t exactly the most exciting way to spend an afternoon. As such, like they’d done so many times before, Albieri and Drake spoke.
They’d gone past trivialities such as their love for their respective nations, their hatred for the crimes perpetrated against their respective countrymen and even the classic insults to one’s progenitors. At this point, they discussed the nature of their engagement itself. Though Albieri found Winston naïve to the point of being starry-eyed, he nonetheless appreciated the fresh perspective this nemesis presented.
“So I’ve been wondering for a while, Al. Have you ever considered why we’ve been at a stalemate for so long?”
Albieri found the question intriguing, though simple to answer. “One would assume it’s simply because we are evenly matched, yes? Neither of us has strengths or weaknesses great enough for the other side to exploit.” Albieri’s pale green locks were brushed away from his face as he sat like a bored prince within his control “womb”. His mind alone sent out the commands for his troops as he carefully studied the ensuing battle. Even moreso, his construct avoided and riposted at Winston’s own with grace and speed belying its size.
“I know that as a soldier you know better than to simply dismiss it as that.” Winston replied. “A soldier goes into battle carrying a number of feelings. Bloodlust, vengeance, grief, the simple desire to protect one’s beloved or treasured. It goes double for those with a cause; they feel their sense of purpose gives them strength, it gives them the power to overcome the obstacles they face and defeat their enemy.”
“Your point being? You believe we are equally correct in our struggles? Please spare me the power of friendship lecture.” Albieri noted with distinct, if subtle, annoyance. This translated into a belayed command that caused him to need to adjust his troop’s movements. This teller will spare you the chess metaphor – if nothing else because he is about as good at chess as a goat is at barking.
“War is devoid of something as simple and black and white as a right and a wrong side. Though don’t let anyone know I ever said it.” Drake spoke through a puff of smoke. The grizzled veteran was fond of his smoking pipe, which he took with him to the battlefield. “That doesn’t mean we can’t really believe otherwise. Faith, such as it is, is a very tangible source of strength in warfare.”
Though one might find Drake’s statement strange beyond a metaphysical level, he referred to the phenomenon called Fiamma, a source of power and energy that nearly everyone in the world could make use of. Manifesting basically as a flame, the intensity of any given Fiamma user’s power was directly linked to one’s emotional state. Despite its basic appearance, Fiamma could be trained to take on a number of forms and develop into a number of powers – the more complex they were, the more training they required.
This explanation was unnecessary to Albieri, of course; it is here for the benefit of the reader.
“So you believe we kid ourselves into believing our side in the war is just. But without knowing who started it, that’s impossible to truly determine.” Albieri pointed out. “I have many different reasons to do battle. Right and wrong have nothing to do with any of them.”
“I fight because, as a soldier, it is my job to fight for those who can’t, so I understand what you mean. Fact of the matter is, the war won’t end until one side stops. Now we’ve had this discussion before –“
“—and nothing came of it”, Albieri interrupted, “because whenever we brought the idea up to our respective ‘leaders’, they all had a dead wife or uncle or son or butler that had fallen ‘in defense of the country’. Destroying the weapons themselves wouldn’t work; they’d fight each other tooth and nail if they had to.”
“Yes. Remember when they proposed we traded our daughters as a means to secure the peace?” Winston said with a chuckle as if he were reminded of something funny.
“Yours knocked out half the guards in the Royal Palace on her escape, as I recall.” Albieri didn’t smile, on the other hand.
“And yours made Count Theloh into an eunuch when he tried to have his way with her.”
“Be that as it may, you had a point before.”
“Ah, yes.” Winston seemed to suddenly remember. “We haven’t gained the upper hand on each other in any battle for over thirty years. We’ve both come up with several different ways to attack and defend, and neither has really been able to deal a decisive blow. It’s not like we’re running out of steam anytime soon, either – our ways of life are much too rooted in prolonged war; our countries are practically built to prolong it as long as it takes. So the ultimate, decisive factor at this point is simple determination.”
“Determination?” Albieri echoed in confusion.
“Yes. Whosoever wishes to win the most… wins.”
“You’re delirious. You’re claiming that neither of us wants to end this war bad enough?”
“No soldier fights alone. We all have family and friends to fight for. Were it a simple matter of the method through which one’s army is raised… whichever army was brought up to protect their homeland would win, simply because the support from one’s beloved would carry them into the wings of a dream called victory.”
“But we’ve both raised our army this way. Both sides adhere strictly to wartime conventions. We’ve not had to hold a single court martial for crimes of war in fifteen years.”
“And neither have we,” Winston continued, “If nothing else because of the examples we’ve set with the last number of court martials. It was a great idea to send the guilty parties to the enemy camp for sentencing, by the way. Cruel, but efficient.”
“You were the one who came up with the protocols for exchanging prisoners of war.” Albieri replied. This was their way of showing each other respect. Had they not been born in warring countries and gifted with such senses of duty to their nations, they would have made the best of friends.
“In any case, I think you see my point. We both believe we are right. We both have something to protect. Neither of us wants to yield. So we fight. Until something shifts this balance, the blood of our countrymen remains in our hands.” Drake sighed sadly, and noted to the other, “I guess it is about time to sound the retreat. We’re only going to lose good men if we prolong this any further.”
“Agreed.” Said Albieri.
The commanders saluted each other, turned their backs and walked away, and with them the thundering cries of frustration and parting shots from both sides. Rounding up survivors and mutual surrenders, the armies retreated into their respective horizons. To eat, to drink, to heal, and to dream of victory.
