The evergreen grass is now tainted a scarlet shade from hours of combat. I, along with my opponent, stand in a ready position, our feet shoulder width apart, and our hands grip our weapons.  He wears a silver gray helm that covers everything but his eyes. I meet him with a deathly stare that could cut through millions, yet it does not seem to phase him. The grip I hold onto my sterling sword tightens as I ready myself to take action. With a loud cry, I charge at him with the strength of 5 men. 

My blade, pearlescent in the afternoon sun, is high in the air, and I strike it down when I reach his proximity. I hit him in the shoulder, yet no cry or struggle emits from his throat. My confusion turns into wrath as I realize I am too weak to cut through his chainmail. With a grunt, he strikes back. This time his blow only strikes the edge of my cheek. If he were to hit closer, I would have perished; I am extremely fortunate that he missed by merely an inch, but I cannot lean on blessings and luck to win this fight. I bring the pad of my finger to the wound, collecting the blood running along my cheek, and lick the corrupted blood. It tastes like power. The devious smile that plays across my face catches him off guard, and I use that to my advantage.

Knowing that his mind is sharp, and always predicting my moves, I act quickly.  In an attempt to hit his blind spot, I hastily shift behind him, but I was not fast enough. He turns around, and whips his sword at me. Taking my blade, I counteract his. This test of strength gets increasingly challenging as our swords reach their limits. The splintering of my sword that was told to be crafted by the gods hums in my ears, acting like a warning sign, and it visibly crumbles under his blade. I pushed harder, exerting all of my strength, and I thrust him off of my sword. He falls to the ground, landing with a south 

that vibrates the low earth, and hits his head on a tree stump. I march over to him. My sword reaches him before I do. I press it against his chest. 

“It's over now,” I proclaim, “this long war is over, and I have triumphed.” The man says nothing in response; he only lifts his hand up before it limps back down to his chest. I take my hands, and place them on his helmet to lift it off. The helm is slick from the sweat and blood, but I am too prideful to care.  

As I lift his helm, his face seems more and more familiar. When I see his slight stubble that almost reaches his ears, I get an anxious feeling. As I lift it higher, I see a slight bump on his nose that I have adored my whole life. My pride, now lost in the fog of war. I take it off completely, and my world falls silent. I hear nothing but my own heartache. I now fully recognize my opponent. I am meant to feel victorious, yet this feeling is so distant as I stare into my own lover's eyes, blue and lifeless.