“War doesn't grant me permission to be a savage beast.” I begin to circle him. We both understand: only one will remain. It is an unspoken vow we just made, a dance we enter, unknowing who will win.
“It seems so odd.” The fae mirrors my steps.We’ve been reduced to two circling predators.
“What?” I ask.
“To murder so many just for land.”
I almost stumble. Had that been his plan?
“The land is a symbol,” I acknowledge.
“Some say symbols caused this war.”
My mouth moves; words fly out without my permission. “Others argue symbols ended it.”
Why did I say that?
It was a bedtime story my mother used to read. That was before her and my father were deployed. How did I remember that?
That book was about runes. The Era of Broken Oaths: runes ran unchecked, unbalanced, and untamed. Then, a counterbalance happened. The Great Stillness was a time of panic; runes stopped working. People had to go back to training their magic and not just relying on runes to enhance it.
But these are stories, long twisted by the old tongues who retell them endlessly. They teach children lessons.
The fae’s eyes dip to my hands. “Why did you burn the dead?”
I don’t want to talk about that!
“Why?” he repeats the question with such authority, like he’s the author and I’m a sheet of paper, his question the ink I amforced to have absorbed within me. No matter how much I don’t want that stain upon my mind, I am compelled to answer.
“We burn our dead,” I force out.
“We are in the middle of a battle. You could have used your magic to kill.”
“What does it matter to you?” I sneer as I place my boot firmly into the soil, readying myself.
“I watched as you looked at our dead, too. You looked like you wanted to do something.”
Fuck this! I’m walking into a trap.
I make the first move, surging forward, my sword raised high. Steel catches the light of the rising moon and the setting sun. It is a strange time where light and dark meet.
I aim at his weak spot, his exposed arm. The speed at which I swing the arch makes a sharp whistling sound. He hesitates, lips pressed. Those wide eyes narrow with anger over my choice of replying with my sword and not my tongue.
Our blades collide with a sharp clang. I force all my power into my arms; my biceps are on fire, muscles burning and devouring all the energy I have. The force of the clash vibrates up my arm. We press against each other, faces inches apart.
“Why?” he persists with that bloody question.
He’s really starting to piss me off! “Fae do not burn their dead!” I shout and spit. “That is why I do not burn every fallen soldier I walk past.”
How does he know that if the fae did burn their dead, I would have set their bodies aflame, too?
His eyes are unmoving, shades of brown and green, rich like the tall forests in his lands. His hair is styled in the high fae tradition, braided on the sides and tied back. “But we are your enemy; why would you honor our bodies?”
“Alive, you are my enemy. Dead, you are my brother who is a casualty in this war.” The surrounding battle grows dull. Mynostrils flare, and I brace myself for the putrid scent of death, the sour tang of piss from the bodies now decaying, and the metallic sharpness of blood as it mixes with earthy soil.
I shake my arms, trying to fend off the chills that wrap around me, but… I smell nothing. Not death or life. The air feels strangely pure, though the sensation is so subtle I question its existence.
I twist my wrist; my blade slides down his. A terrible screech grates on my ears as the edges of our steel scrape. His grip holds firm, refusing to give ground. Our swords grind together until the tips hover near each other’s necks, each one a hair’s breadth away from ending the fight.
