Kitsch
4 ABY
Endor
Never has there been a sound more beautiful than the horn of the Soul Tree.
It is the sound every Ewok first awakes to, the sound they will fall asleep to. It is the first sound at every festival. The sound that calls us for every tribal meeting, funeral pyre, and hunting party.
But today the sound rings for a different reason. When the horn is blown that day it will be the last time many of us will be hearing it.
I rise at once at its call. Spring from my shelter in the bushes with a vigor that only comes when you are certain of something. It wasn't everyday you got to die.
Dozens of warriors do the same, from the shrubs, from the trees, from gliders in the skies. We surround the valley now, soldiers of white stone are all that we see. They are heathens, foreign Men that claimed themselves keepers of our land. My spear never felt so eager in my fists.
Soon the soldiers would be keepers of the void.
Our battle begins without my full acknowledgement. For all the wood traps I had learned to set and all the boar-wolves that I have slain, nothing can prepare you for true combat. Nothing readies you for the sacrifices that have to be made. At a time I had been scared of it all, for we were fighting myths of an era well past our own. Then I had realized our world was one full of myths. A world where the moon was metal and our foe's weapons were powered by the sun. A world where some Men pretended to be right and others ignored their wrongs, where some would help us just so they could fight us again.
In fights such as these, it wasn't about the size of the foe, but the amount of courage in your heart. Or so my father had once told me. I've placed an importance on different things since the soldiers of white claimed his life and burnt down my tribe - the number of hides my blade will claim in turn.
If everything was to be a myth, ignorance would be our strength that day.
That belief emboldens me, strengthens my legs as I storm down the side of the hill. Barrages of arrow and light thunder all around to greet my charge. And while they do their best to obstruct my path, they can not stop me. At that very moment, surrounded by the remnants of my tribe, nothing can.
My spear is my guide. It towers over me, leads my hands as it thrusts through the neck of the first man it sees. Now the soldiers of white bleed a crimson. As I bring my weapon across his legs the soldier falls, slides down to the ground to eat the dirt.
As long as I have my spear, I am not alone.
The crossfire of our battle paints the sky a war-torn gray. Somewhere above the haze, in the very heavens themselves, another fight is taking place. One of angels and demons, where pilots fly gliders of stone in a vain attempt to pierce the moon's armor.
Armor was strange in that way. For all armors had its weak points, even the soldiers of white. The chains do their best to hide the wearer, but no container can hold all sides of the contained. It was the same for our people, same for the forest, same for life of all kind. Nothing was every really as secure as a warrior pretended.
As if to confirm that fact, a streak of fire grazes my shoulder. It pierces my auburn fur and sears the flesh beneath. I was once told that Man's weapons had come from the demon's forges themselves. And in that moment, indeed, it feels that way. But by the next I feel no more pain. For an instant I chalk the miracle up to adrenaline, but in that moment I knew better. Defiance was a much stronger ally than adrenaline could ever hope to be.
"Romba!"
The name doesn't register, not at first. But that voice does, and the voice is enough.
Smoke still tracing my shoulder, I raise myself from the forest grounds, stumble towards the source of the speaker. The trek is hazarded by flame and corpse of warriors both allied and otherwise.
"Nanta!" I cry out in turn. But by the time I've reached her voice, it's being drowned out by something else, something much bigger.
Weapons and gliders are one thing, but now Man has clad their beasts in metal. It was some kind of bipedal-contraption - a walker, one I've only heard stories of before. Stories that will quickly turn to nightmares if the rotary cannons at its sides are anything to go by.
I can feel Nanta stiffen at the sight, root herself in place like a lamb for sacrifice. By the time the machine's turned its head to address us I've tackled her to the ground, forced her into the thicket.
Chars of plasma and ash are all that's left to inhabit the glade we just cleared.
There's a brief reprieve, seconds at the most, but it is all I need to savor the fact she is still alive, to hold her small frame tight in my arms. War wasn't for all of us. It sprung on us, forced us into situations we were never trained to be in. Nanta was to be a priestess in my tribe long ago, a beacon of hope and wisdom. One of the things that made wars worth fighting. For me, the only thing.
"Come on!" She tugs at my side, eyes still wide at the monstrosity brimming behind us. Now her slender hand grabs my own, brings us further into the grove.
The infernal walker wastes no time in following, taking strides that are equal parts hurried and determined. It shouldn't have been able to follow us, I was so convinced it couldn't. The foliage was too dense, the crossing too thick with vines. But all the same, the echoes behind us only get louder, branches flinging all about as the entire tree line threatens to buckle.
For a moment I think that this will be the end. That the myths are right and we are wrong. But the forest knows better, it summons tree stalks to do its fighting. Both sides of the metal beast come caving in on itself, forced in by the weight of two trees that have suddenly crushed its head. Forced in by a trap we have set.
For we are still hunters, and the soldiers are our prey.
Man can cast his devices in metal, can gift it all the technologies that the forest refuses to, but there's no changing the fact that all creations will imitate nature, be fallible to the same tricks nature is. The walker might have been a little taller, marched a little straighter, but it was still a boar-wolf, same as all the others.
"We did it!" Nanta exclaims, her joy enough to sate the both of us. We laugh, cry, cheer on the trappers that sprung the trees in the forest far above. For a moment I considered the many legends that would be told about this day, of how ingenuity defeated technology. Of how we fallen few kept the spirit of the forest alive.
As the beast's decrepit form gathers smoke in the clearing, the myths all seem a little bit realer.
But there's another echo in the distance. A terrible, crunching echo. Nanta looks to me in response, to the feeble weapon in my hands, then out into the distance where the source of the noise still cries. Soon enough the source is upon us, disposing of our friends in the trees with a burst of light. Then, with mechanical precision, it pans its sights to us.
Where one beast fell, two more now rise to take its place.
It is all we can do to pick ourselves back up, to force our aching bones to keep running. While our spirits never wavered, our bodies did, they would have to. It was nature's way. Even with my hand dragging her forward, I can feel Nanta's pace begin to lessen. We're bobbing and weaving all the same, breathless as we lunge forward and hurtle down a foothill. If we can just round the next corner, make it to the next thicket -
For a long moment, there is only darkness.
The blast had uprooted us, of that I was certain, cleaned us off our feet. As I flailed through the air, I had heard the most horrid screech. A screech that only the death angel could make.
But soon the sound is gone, and all that's left is that same darkness. Then the sting of smoke, the feel of dirt beneath my fingers, the echo of the machines marching off into the distance.
And then I cry out in relief - we were alive!
"Nanta!" I all but hiss her name, go to tug at her coat where she's lying beside me. We couldn't waste time, not now, not when the forest had given us its blessing.
"Nanta?" I call again, this time with hesitation.
But Nanta doesn't answer. Nanta is dead.
I discard my spear at the sight, wrap her fur in my hands. Rest her head against mine.
Trapped there in the middle of the crossfire, with lives claimed by laser and stone, there is a moment of grief for it all. Pain-stricken, but resigned. For no stories would be told that day, not of us. Not of her.
In the distance I can hear that same familiar noise. The horn of the Soul Tree rings again. Not as a cry of war, but as a signal for our retreat.
...
...
...
Kolocast Cruiser
(Six Months after the Battle of Endor)
"You sure about this?"
The question lingers in the air of the office for a moment. Its greeted by two men, mid-40s, one is beaming with optimism, the other seemingly disillusioned. A number of fur-filled models are scattered on the desk before them.
"Kolocast as a company is expanding, Reg. We need to break new grounds, squeeze untapped markets."
"I know, it's just... toys?"
"The Ewoks are iconic! The story of the Alliance can't be told without them. Kids love this stuff."
"Bears," Reg repeats, looking down at the product in question.
"Not just bears," the man counters with a scoff. "Soldiers. Think of all the accessories we can sell!"
He brings his hand down to pick a bear up. It's scruffy, has a tear in its fabric where its shoulder should be. "This one right here? He was special - took out half a dozen Imps by himself. No backup, no weapons. Just his bare hands. Authentic too, he's battle-damaged."
The sales pitch seems to have done little to assuage his partner's concerns.
"Just trust me on this one - it's not like we can pull out. I've already ordered the shipment." There's a shuffle of papers then as he goes to prove his point.
Reg brings a hand to rub his forehead as he looks at the numbers. "You know, you may have gone too far in a few places..."
But there is an undeniable gleam in his partner's eye.
"It's going to be great."
End