The Steel

The steel met with a deafening sound. Sparks flew around the two men. This was the moment they had been both expecting. The swords grinded against one another, producing a hissing sound, a primal growl. They both stepped back, and as of one body, they both flexed their arms, sending their weapons on a collision course. Sparks flew once more; the sun was setting and the sudden brightness of the impact was soon becoming the only light. Elsewhere on the darkening field, others were also paired up. The impacts caused eruptions of light all over the plains as the two armies met under a setting sun. When sparks did not fly, blood gushed out of the newly formed openings on the soldiers bodies. All of this did not matter for the pair dancing the deadly dance. Their synchronism was perfect, steel meeting steel, and bodies moving so that only the air was sliced.

They looked at each other. They were both tired, but they would never admit it. They were brothers on the battlefield, facing each other but giving each other purpose. As if the same thought filled their minds at the same time, their resolve grew stronger. And so the swords met in a deafening impact that lit up the night. Next to them, their allies were dying and living. But it did not matter. Years of camaraderie paled before the majesty of seconds of enmity. They did not know each other, they hated each other, and yet they were both part of a whole. Something that was separated all their life and that was being violently reunited. One stepped to the left, the other followed. The moon was rising, the pale white light turning the armies into ghosts. And the sparks still flew, in lesser number now that time had passed, but in greater significance.

This was what they had both trained for. Years ago, when they enlisted, it was for this moment. The nights in the barracks, the days training their sword arms, learning how to use a shield, learning how to follow orders. It was for this moment. It was not about dying for the king or for god, or for any being with the pretension of controlling their lives. Everything they had done led them here. Their wives left behind, pregnant and crying, their mothers being sick with worry, their children being orphaned by their decision. Everything was just a minor detail. This moment, under the moon, surrounded by blood, steel, and pain, this was what they were born for. Sparks flew, revealing an ever emptying field around them.

That moment of nostalgia was gone; the swords were coming back to life. They met with a newfound harmony. Music rose as swords met swords, shields, and air. They both did not hold back, they sent their blades towards weak spots in each other’s defence. They respected each other enough to not be insulting by holding back. The movements gracefully accommodating for these precise strikes, it was a choreography they were improvising and yet they knew it by heart. They both wanted this battle to last forever, not because they were afraid of dying like the wailing injured soldiers that surrounded them, but because they were afraid of killing.

The moon was slowly going down behind the hills; the first light of dawn was shining. The swords met with less vigour, the arms were tired. But they still fought, giving up was beyond consideration. They both had silently agreed, the fatigue did not matter and they would fight to the end without bitterness or resentment. This night spent in complicity gave a new meaning to both their lives and their deaths. The swords met one more time, the arms relentlessly bringing the steel to meet. Something new happened, a sword broke. The two men had lasted beyond all comprehension, but the steel had given up and one of them was defenceless. They both understood what it meant but had accepted it. And so the sword came down again, this time biting through steel, leather, wool, and, eventually, flesh. As the sun rose, the blade was suddenly covered in ruby, for a man such as his foe could not be bleeding anything other than precious stones. The warm sun was comforting for the dying man. They had both knew this moment would come, and so the one that lived did not hold his hand back. And the steel sword pierced his brother in battle’s heart. The battle had been over hours ago, the victors did not matter. The battle had stopped so that all soldiers could watch this destined battle. And as death fell over the vanquished, silence fell over the field. No one could explain what they felt at that moment, but years later, when they would describe this moment in history, no one but the two men who fought all night were deemed worthy of being called warriors.


[New type of story again. This is a lot closer to what I wanted to write as a kid. Heroic battles, heroes, villains and dramatic conflicts. But in a sense this is also a lot further than what I thought at first glance. There is no sense of good and evil, both fighters are heroes in their own right. It's not black and white, it is a rather grey story. There isn't much to say about this.]