The Verse of War

There are things more deadly

The hooded figure swept upwards in a wave of air. Quickly, with only the softest toll it arrived, the figure stepping onto the platform with only a click. Already in sight, the other waited by the end, a mask covering the face. One hooded, one masked. Neither smiled, neither frowned. The hooded pulled its sword, the masked returned the gesture. They charged.

A flash erupted as weapon met weapon, a scythe of light surrounded by darkness. They turned, they parried, a brilliance of colour exploding as each reflected blow met. They continued.

The hooded figure paused, not knowing how to return the last shock. The masked stopped, a gaze of triumph. It did not last long. Another swash met and they were again, weapon against weapon. A flick here, a dance there. It was the deadliest blows they delivered. Neither would let down, momentary slips left to erupt again. Bigger, better, stronger. Neither expected defeat, neither expected to win.

In this battle a small boy poked his head from a door, coming to the middle of their combat. They did not seem to notice him and so he let himself watch, only showing the smallest of his head. He smiled with delight as they continued, blow after blow. When would one fall? The small boy questioned. Slowly, the hooded figure and the masked began to falter, pauses growing longer, swords falling flatter. Neither knew what to do as both came to a halt. Neither had been defeated, neither had won.

The small boy noticed this stop, and was sad that the fun had stopped. The two figures just stood there, staring at the other. They had lost their swords. The boy, deciding there was nothing left, withdrew behind the door, leaving the two figures.  

They stood there still, staring at the other, throats clenching, minds churning. They had lost their voices, and so could no longer continue their war of words.