Archive of Our Own ^beta

Swords at the ready, the two men faced off with heated emotion. Brother against brother. It had always been thus. Battle at first sight. Forced societal dictates.

The well practiced moment of engagement descended upon them. A blur of red and a streak of white led to the shrieking clang of metal. Even their swords were not so ignorant as to be unaware of the imbalance, wailing at the injustice, weeping for what could not be.

Mere puppets move to the well choreographed dance. Twist to duck under the blade. Spin to avoid a slash to the ribs. Block to protect the throat. Backflip to withdraw, only to re-enter the dance from a more defensible position.

A flick of the wrist and the opponent is disarmed. Not a moment is wasted. One powerful punch and a body lies in the dirt, panting for breath.

Measured footsteps approach the fallen, the silvery rays of moonlight obscured behind the shadow of the victor. In the clamoring silence of an unattainable desire for peace, the whisper of violence promises an ending to this false dance, this charade.

Ending it now would be such a simple thing. A mere silent flick of the wrist. The blur of a shining blade.

In that one act, both warriors would be vanquished. No. Society would not triumph. Not now. Not ever.

“You are weak.”
...'You will become strong.’

“You got lucky.”
...‘One day, I’ll be stronger than you.’

“You shall die by my hand.”
...'I will allow no one to kill you.’

“Bastard.”
‘...'Why do you hate me so much?’

Without a backward glance, the victor strolls away, the scrape of metal signaling the sheathing of his sword. There would be another day, another dance.

Time would never mark the last.