Slash

A symbol of unity comes crashing against the symbol of death. Tattered flags whip against backs as steel grey and rusted brown interlock between a dance of fury and finesse. They screech in challenge, those blades. Nothing but spark and muscles in knots comes between the rivalry those two swords’ play. Again the blades reach zenith and come against . A snarl escapes, one shows strain and argent slivers of pain slide against one another. The light fleets across in the sun, mocking life in the face as it pierces the eyes of two who play a game of distress. They stagger, moving back as the trees whisper with wind, the crackle of thunder laughs with deep booms. The two meet again, this time family crests collide and boots stamp against already trodden earth. Sweat falls, droplets mingling with tears and the rain that patters against chain mail and pauldron. Capes get caught. Tear with a rip. Rain is sliced. A scream of agony. One stands over the other, blade risen as blood leaves a trail across muddy ground. Grounded he can only look as the blade comes crashing down; blood arcs in a display of ruby. The defeated goes limp, sword still clutched in an unforgiving hand. Carefully does the victor sheathe his guilty blade, and with that his trail leads to nothing, but knowing he cannot remain behind.