INCIPIENT ➵ EDMUND PEVENSIE

41 | Battles Are Sick Affairs

41 | BATTLES ARE SICK AFFAIRS

Elliott sees red spilling from her flesh and onto the ground.

    Like a careless splatter of paint, her vital fluid makes sloppy marks against the blades of green under her now faltering body.

    Mentally, though, Elliott wavers not an inch - such things have become commonplace for her in the past year anyway.

    A brutal kick is delivered next, and reluctantly, the girl falls to her knees. She grits her teeth at the impact; she clenches her fists.

    And she reminds her lungs to breathe.

    This is nothing but child's play, she assures herself.

    And really, she isn't wrong.

    "Stay your blade, idiot!" shouts a Telmarine in utter alarm, "What audacity you already have to strike the first time, and now, you endeavour a second?!"

    Violently, a metal-clad hand lugs Elliott back and up from the soil by the neck, and this forces her to come face to face with the owner of the gravelly voice.

    From the corner of her eye, she catches sight of the soldier who'd been reprimanded, the only individual to have his weapon drawn. A look of abashment written conspicuously on that rookie's face, he suspends his blood-imbrued blade at just a finger's breadth away from where she was previously positioned.

    But, let me tell you this for now: Elliott will not be thankful that that very sword had failed to make its finishing mark on the back of her head. In fact, I doubt any of us will be, at least not anytime soon.

    As she stares the soldier down - or, more accurately speaking, 'up' - the pain diffusing from both her wound and the iron grip on her bare neck only serves to fuel her hatred towards them all.

    "Our new king wants her for her deadliness," the man hisses with smugness laced in his words, "He doesn't want her to be dead, understood?"

    A timid 'Yes, General Glozelle' sounds from beside him.

    "Then you should fear our proximity," spits Elliott, loud and clear, "And your king must be mistaken. Just what good shall I be able to bring to your people? I may be in some way 'gifted', but I am not an inanimate weapon. You can own me, but you cannot control me."

    Glozelle lets out a snickering breath fore giving his reply. "You take us for fools, clever girl," here he raises his free hand to display the armour that veils the skin up till his fingertips, "Made some improvements to our battle wear after learning of your existence; even the soldiers of the lowest rank have been given gloves for their safety. We now have chainmail that creeps fully up our necks, and improved headgear to finish off the set. And what good shall you bring, you ask?" he continues with a small nod of his head, "Since Telmar has you in our hands, it seems we may be able to spare our men some trouble on the battlefield."