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"On my way here I have fought armies, giants, and even dragons. Yet right now, at the end of the line, I am only greeted by a dying knight...
A fellow dying knight who has lost everything. Here, in this godforsaken wasteland we will have our final duel, the greatest duel this world will never know.
How would they know, when everyone else is already dead. Now, lets fight for-..”
The man stumbles back slowly, holding his gaze on the other commander. He sheepishly held his chest that was battered with many scars in the palms of his hands. His breathing was ragged and croaky. “…F-for..-“
The man stumbled upon his words, slowly taking his gaze off of his nemesis. Had he not looked away, he was sure the enemy would’ve easily looked through his façade.
Through heavy breaths, the man slowly held out a hand holding his worn down iron sword, contained of silver bits and pecks that had long corroded over the course of many decades.
Steady, yet still shaking, the man bumped the dull sword tip directly into the enemy’s torso, which was leaking a warm, velvet liquid that gingerly trickled down his knees and burned a small, gaping hole through the icy snow that laid beneath them.
Unbeknownst to him, the enemy was disappointed with his sudden gesture of animosity as he had put the sword away, instead shakily picking up a bag covered in snowfall. The man threw the bag to the opposing enemy as he quickly snatched it for grabs.
“Scraps,” the man murmured underneath his breath, seeming almost irritated at the god awful sound the bag made as the enemy hasted to unpack it. After taking a quick bite, he declared it was enough and threw the baggage back to the man.
“I don’t like dry foods,” the man watched him in utter amusement. A never before seen sight in the vast wastelands of the kingdoms. Interesting, for sure. Intrigued by this apparel, he knelt down on his knees, his iron knee pads getting soaked in the puddle of blood below him. He didn’t really appear to care.
Leaning in too close for comfort, the man held his enemy’s head by the chin, yanking it upwards to get a better look at him. He was shocked, to say the least, at the sight of such a young warrior. If he didn’t know better, he would’ve long finished him up and dragged him back to his commander through the biting frost.
“Hmm,” the man uttered in confusion.
He leaned forward once more, this time digging his long rusty nails into the enemy’s throat. He didn’t like that.
“Tell me, youngling,” he spoke.
“What exactly is your name?”
He eyed the young lad for a few moments, desperately waiting for a much needed answer. Perhaps that could mend the mess running through his mind and set a clear picture for what exactly was going on between the two kingdoms that’d make them rage another war.
“Why, can’t a devil keep his secrets?” He was utterly astounded by such a response, especially from someone of such young age.
The young warrior forced a smile as he flinched at the stinging pain on his bloodied torso. He clamped his hands over it as a last resort, before he took the cold bite of his last winter blanket.
The man hummed in dissatisfaction, slowly getting up from his knees as the cold air bit through his chubby neck.
“Ya know, kid, you’ve got quite some spice,” the man remarked with a gentle smile on his face.
“One that is not to be seen by some lowly farmer like you..,” he spat arrogantly. It earned him a chuckle from the other person.
The warrior yelped when he was suddenly lifted up by the short chubby man, dangling his arms dangerously close to his silver sword, which was now laying stagnant on the ground.
The tearing of flesh opening could be heard in low frequencies. His wounds haven’t been taken proper care of, causing the scar to be pulled apart. It hurt like hell, but he could only do as much as gently yelp. He wouldn’t have dared doing more.
The man, later realising the disgusted look the youngling gave him draped over his shoulders, gingerly dropped him to the ground. To his dismay, the warrior had other ideas and instead kicked him in the stomach as he scrambled for his sword.
The blinding white colour of the winter landscape was hardly distinguishable from a silver sword forged in the blacksmith of its original kingdom.
The man jogged next to the warrior, who had avoided meeting his gaze at all costs, instead scavenging the snow for his lost sword.
“It be of no use,” he replied grimly.
It earned him a scowl from the other fighter opposite of him.
The warrior’s cutting edge bravado was suddenly gone. That thick sugar coated voice, deep growls and gentle demeanor. It reminded him too much.
Too much of him.
He shook his head. No, now was not the time for sulking.
If he ever wanted to see the stars meet the sea again, he’d have to look at the curly reflection emitted in its wavy form, a sight that returned the beautiful glimmer back to the sky, unrequited, as if the stars were giving it them all, knowing that the ocean loved them, but unable to return the favour because of the circumstances they were forced to be in.
“Hey,” the man asked again, forcing him back to the reality of his situation. He grimaced through the pain that was gnawing at him. Like the giant monsters he fought before. But this one felt.. different.
It wasn’t about the monsters anymore. Not this time. Instead, it was something that made him feel utterly useless, like a cleric preventing his crops from being burnt with what little healing powers he had.
This once, for the first time in years, the young warrior’s heart ached for something less significant than bloodshed. It made his body warm up just slightly with his rapidly increasing heartbeat.
He suddenly felt his body giving off all the heat they had left, as he kneeled there slumped over in disbelief. The body’s reaction to being close to death during winter blanket had never occurred to him before. All the sudden he felt sweaty, but knew better than to take off his clothes.
With shaky breaths, now struggling to even crawl as he desperately reached for his sword. Unbeknownst to him, he collapsed right were he laid. To say it scared the man was an understatement.
Of course, the young lad was still his enemy. A deadly commander gazing cautiously at every other move he’d made. A fearless warrior with bloodshed written all over. An army leader with bravado who’d stop at nothing to cause the rise and fall of crumbling nations. Now, he knew that wasn’t true.
He watched with crispy breaths as the ‘boy’ laid there in silence. Just a young lad. The realisation dawned upon him.
“I-It wasn’t you, was it? It had never been you. Anyone could’ve been behind the mask. You were simply a mere distraction.” The man caught his breath before continuing. “Just a scapegoat.”
Just a scapegoat.
The man sighed as he slowly picked up the youngling, being careful not to hurt him as he carried him in his large arms. He gingerly ruffled the lad’s hair. It was jet black, covered by the snowfall of white blanket. The young warrior’s expression appeared to be pale, assumably from the lack of heat and wounds which were scattered all over his damaged armour.
“Why do I do what I do..” he murmured underneath his breath, picking up the courage to walk back to wherever he came from. If he remembered, really.
He crunched the snow underneath his heavy weight as the lad’s hair of medium length moved ever so slightly at the small gusts of wind coming from the fog.
The sword, left behind their path of footsteps, now almost fully covered by snowfall, remains an artefact to be lost in time. A memory of the oh so distant yet close past, some having made brilliant memories, some traumatised and suffer from.
As the final gust of wind blew over the silver sword, causing the sword to be unseen, now covered in the layers of crunchy pack snow, nature had officially made one thing crystal clear.
It was time for a new era.
—— FIN ——