Honor

         The skilled swordsmen circled each other in the forest clearing. Not a sound pierced the night as they glared at each other. One would lunge, the other would pull back. Moving ever fluently in their deadly circle, the older one jabbed at the younger; as though daring him to make the first move.
         “Scared, Leafe?” said the older soldier to the younger, “just think of this as one of our lessons.” Leafe scowled at the statement and lunged at Pyre, who sidestepped the attack easily.
         “Perhaps my memory fails me, master,” Leafe’s voice dripping with sarcasm as he emphasized the word, “But we never had any lessons! I was nothing more than your slave!”
         CLANG
Sparks flew as swords met, each of the soldiers throwing brute strength into the blows. They quickly backed away from one another, breathing heavily, with hate etched on every line of their faces.
         “You ungrateful whelp,” Pyre hissed as Leafe continued to circle, “I taught you every trick you know, and in return you killed my son!” Pyre, all thought of swords forgotten, punched Leafe in the gut. Leafe doubled over in pain, and Pyre seemed to regain composure. The angry elder regained his stance, circling the breathless youth.
         “It—was—an—accident--,” Leafe gasped as he too stood in his former position. Again Pyre attacked and Leafe defended. The men attacking and sidestepping, the skill present was so potent that their swords were merely an extension of their arms. To the outsider, it would be like seeing two demons locked in a lethal dance. Spinning and metal-on-metal resounding through the woods, sparks coming from out of the darkness. It was an enthralling yet repulsive sight as the two thrashed their way through the forest.
         “It wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t been so confident in your mediocre skills,” Pyre snarled, “you might also have retained your place in the army that you hold so dear!”
         “Stop it! That isn’t why they banished me!” Leafe’s eyes were now manic, and Pyre looked satisfied, “Then why did they do it?” When Leafe didn’t answer Pyre lunged in for another attack. He brought his long, red sword down on what was meant to be Leafe’s head, but was blocked. The force of his blow was so strong; however, that Leafe faltered under the weight and was hit on the shoulder. They heard a resonant CRACK as Leafe’s armor crumbled under the blade and his left arm was broken. The now clearly overmatched enemies circled each other once more.
         “If you weren’t so bloody arrogant I would still have my rank amongst the soldiers!” Pyre barked as Leafe cradled his now useless arm. Leafe jumped at this and bellowed back, “It’s not my fault that you killed the people that you did! You’re son died, so you decided to kill everyone else!”
         “No father should have to bury his son,” Pyre’s voice was so calm and his face was so emotionless, that Leafe knew he crossed the line. He did feel remorse for the death of the older soldier’s son but he would not carry that burden, it was not his to bear.  Suddenly, Leafe realized that he could not win this fight, not with his limp arm. He thought that maybe negotiating would be the answer. So he did the unthinkable, and dropped his sword to his side. Pyre cocked his scarred head in surprise as Leafe looked at him earnestly.
         “Pyre,” he said slowly, “the captain turned me away because I was arrogant, and I admit that. But you were exiled because of your own mistakes.” He stopped talking, eyeing Pyre warily. The older soldier had stopped moving as though he were actually listening. Heartened, Leafe took a few steps closer to Pyre.
         “We have both made mistakes,” Leafe said, his voice stricken, “and perhaps we must both condone for our own before blaming each other.” Pyre still didn’t give any hint to response to Leafe’s words, but he didn’t attack either. So Leafe decided to lift his hand in a gesture of friendship. Pyre looked at it, then met Leafe’s gaze as his sword fell to his side. He grasped Leafe by the hand and pulled him into a one-armed hug. Tears of relief swept down Leafe’s face as Pyre hugged him like an old friend.
         “I’m sorry, brother.”
And before the youth could do anything to protest, Pyre maneuvered his sword under Leafe’s armor and gave it a powerful thrust. Howling in pain, he fell to the ground shaking with tremors of grief and shock. Eventually, the pain subsided and Leafe was overcome by a terrible numbness. He was cold and he was determined. But most of all… he was angry. He had been turned away by his family, friends and countrymen, all because of a mistake. He was angry because Pyre had stabbed him in the most cowardly way, in the back. That was it… It all came down to Pyre, Pyre with his problems and his grief. He clutched his sword more firmly in hand as Pyre knelt down next to him.
         “You deserve every moment of this suffering, Leafe. You deserve to die for what you did to my son.” Pyre smiled as he began to sit back to watch Leafe suffer, but the smile was soon wiped clean from his face. Pyre looked down in shock to see a blade running through his midsection and on the hilt of the blade was Leafe’s hand. Pyre fell dead to the ground and Leafe smiled. His last thoughts were of the peace and acceptance that he would receive in the otherworld, and of his defeat of that troubled demon, Pyre.