Manuel turned from the spectacle. Behind him stood one of his sisters. One of her arms were raised up, straightened, palm facing the enemy flagship. Another gesture to express; for even if there was no shield between the assault and the city, no amount of force, physical or otherwise, could possibly displace the invulnerable structure of the City, even if they tore through planets and blew stars up, even if they burned up galaxies and ripped open black holes.
“Lilea,” he crooned. The Guardian of the City had finally taken action to defend the City, another gesture in itself. Despite the practical redundancy of her shield, The Chronicleum decreed that she was to express a gesture of her love. Her allegiance to the City and it’s People. Like Manuel, she was in her official garb. She was in a similar, simple white robe, and like him, she had a belt around her slender figure. In place of a ring like Manuel’s however, she had a pair of simple bracers, gleaming gold over her forearms. Fingerless gauntlets covered the back of her palms. Greaves wrapped around her slim forelegs, from knees to ankles. Her shoulders were encased in armour that followed the shape of her deltoids closely, the left one trimmed with the lively flow of the River, the flowing liquid giving off the blue light of the River. Her circlet reached down to cover her cheeks, meeting again at her fine, unmoving chin. This form of armour was an imitation of what the People had encountered in the past, they knew nothing of war and conflict until a particular visit from the Gionerns, a race that in their right, had evolved impressively. They flew through space with their own bodies, not knowing of the concept of vehicles and transportation. Whatever they lacked in intellect, was more than made up for in their physical ability. They were fortunate enough to possess the biological ability to sync with the frequency of the River. Without stopping for any exchange of words, totally lacking ranged weapons, they had promptly charged with crude but sturdy spears that could cut through asteroids, smack into Lilea’s shield. At the father’s word, she had dialed the field of the River, partially phasing the City out of the Gionern’s plane of existence. The blunt, provocative race had then lunged at the corporeal City in frustration for several hours before finally giving up. Lilea had seen the practicality of their crude armour, cobbled together with various materials from the space which they flew through, and adapted it into her wardrobe, a gesture of her desire for self-preservation. Her cape of liquid dragged down her back, accenting her glamourous blonde mane that laid to rest between her elbows. Her eyes were currently glowing gold, not even her eye-whites could be seen. Her ‘voice’ in the air was rich, matronly, belying her youthful, ageless form. There was no strain in it, no hint of exertion, despite the millions of projectiles smashing into her City-sized shield.
“What do we do now?” The hierarchy of the People was unconventional, even among the various races in the cosmos. There was the father, who had absolute authority, unquestioned, unchallenged. And then it was the People after that. That was all to it. Manuel as the Steward would only step in if he was not receiving any commands from his father, like now. He was so to speak, an acting father in the Stewardship, should the father choose to remain silent. As the father had equal authority in every aspect, holders of those respective positions were only placed there for their own learning experience. The father was always present and kept everything running. Sometimes, he would remain silent, giving those position holders a learning opportunity.
Lilea was the Guardian, a supervisor to the so-called safety and peace of the City. The only disturbances the People experienced were foreign. There have been no records of peace disruptions that occurred domestically. She would also be the acting father in this field. She defers to The Steward when it comes to taking peacekeeping actions, but he would leave the means to that end entirely in her hands. It was a beautiful cooperation. Their authorities never clashed, never overlapped, never overridden each other. She never steps out of her station to provide suggestions to Manuel on how to carry out his duties, and the vice versa. This is only possible in the kinship of the People. The unyielding trust they had for each other, and intimate familiarity, the mutual interest for the same desire – in this case; peace. Peace and nothing else. No leverage to gain, no conquest, no decisive victory over the enemy.
Manuel considered for a moment, on repeating the usual act of phasing the City out of this particular plane. But he knew now that the visitor had the capability of following through, with the variable pulse generated by the flagship. The Chronicleum also denied the people from taking lives, a rule they firmly agreed upon. Life was greatly valued among the people. Being immortal and watching how lifespans have wisped out some of the brightest flames in the cosmos only made them realise it with more reverence. He turned to look at the flagship again, before murmuring, “We shall talk to them. Again. There is still much to be said for this to end peacefully.” He waited for the predicted acknowledgment from the Guardian, which came instantly, “At once”.