A clearing, vast and desolate, bereft of life.
All that lie here are the soulless rocks,
unmoving and unfeeling.
High above, rays of crimson sunlight edge
between the rocks.
The shade of the light is a simple sign of
the things yet to come.
Brothers, but for their differing
allegiances, move slowly towards each other from opposite ends of the stony
circle.
Each man is fully clothed in steel and
leather and each is armed with a sword, a shield and an insatiable thirst for
the other’s blood.
Closer now and they begin to run. Suddenly
there is a thunderclap as armour, weapons and muscles clash. They move
rhythmically, their swords swing and slash, biting through the chill of the
morning air.
On and on, counter for counter, they
continue in this dance of death. The day wears on and the sun reaches its
zenith. Sweat oozes from every one of their pores.
In an instant each man lands a single
strike. One to the neck, the other deep in the chest. As all hardened warriors
do, both realise that the only thing left to them is the cold embrace of Death.
They fall together to the scorched and
blackened earth. As life-force drains out of them, they utter a last unified
cry:
“What fools we are! For like all men, our
blood is the same.”
Thus the brothers fall into deep, eternal
slumber and never again shall they wake.
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