Again

When I arrive at the top of the Shattered Spire, Marcel is already waiting for me. He sees me step off the crumbling spiral staircase and draws his sword, adopting a loose defensive stance, ready to begin. I hold up a hand: wait. Slowly, I unbuckle the cape from around my shoulders, fold it, and place it on the battlements. I’d begun to notice, over the last few hundred duels, that the extra weight and drag from the cape slightly reduced my movement speed, offsetting any advantage it gave in concealing my attacks.

Marcel looks toward the sun, which hangs large and low over the distant ocean. Eternity will not wait. “We should begin.”

I nod, stretch out my back and draw my own sword. As always, the first few steps and thrusts are just a courtesy. But before long, the song of our steel grows steadily louder as the swipes and parries increase in intensity. The respectful exchanges of two students sparring become deadly blows, which, if not deflected, would cleave through chain mail and shatter bone. With more than a thousand years practice, we are finer swordsmen now than we ever were in life and often I wish, as I make my climb back to the top of the Spire, that I could again test my abilities in a real battle. What I wouldn’t give to once more fight alongside my brothers for glory in a noble war, instead of performing this farcical pantomime.

Marcel feints to the right, only to pivot back and opens a gash down my forearm. I dance back, circling slowly. Careless. Letting my thoughts distract me. We’re both sweating now, and I can see the cold ferocity in his eyes. Stalling, I back away towards the edge of our arena, placing the sun at my back. I see his eyes glance toward it with growing desperation. Most of my victories have been in the moments before sunset, when Marcel presses in with unguarded attacks. He is still the better swordsman, I can acknowledge that, but if I can push him to impatience, I can often — but not today.

I underestimate the strength of his last thrust, it glances off my sword, slips between two ribs and out my back. The relief on his face is immediate. Then as I stagger towards the edge, his expression softens to one of sorrow. I can feel blood filling my lungs, running through my teeth.

Marcel wipes down his sword, offers a bow of respect, then shoves me off the edge of the Spire.

As I fall, I close my eyes against the dazzling glare of the sun as it lights up the ocean, and I appreciate the cool rush of wind on my face. Tomorrow, I’ll make the climb back up the Spire and cross swords with my adversary again. And again and again into eternity, or until the Gods have wiped away every shred of my pride.