Two knights

A lone knight stands amongst a battlefield. There are others, but they lay defeated before him, bodies before his feet as far as the eye can see. Not a sound is heard for miles except the wind catching against his armor, a low whistle that cups the grooves of metal as he surveys the land.

A new grass has overtaken the field, one of bodies and blood and abandoned weapons, a grass crafted from war. He knows it well; its stench, its stain, its ceaseless expansion. He knows it well.

He treads gently between limbs and armor, careful not to dirty the sleeping soldiers any further than he already has. Even the men of his enemy deserve peace; this fight was never theirs, and yet they fought anyway.

In the distance a man treads as well, thoughtlessly and with poise. This man cares not if his feet land atop the bodies of his men; they have done their duty and no longer inhabit their temples of flesh, so it matters not what happens now.

They see each other but make no effort to quicken their stride, gradually meeting in the center of the field. The center of their worlds.

“Is this what you wanted?” The first knight speaks, helmet echoing his voice back to him. There is anger, but in the form of smoldering embers. Remorse has drowned most of his flames.

“This is what they wanted,” the second knight replies. He is without his helmet, hair silvered and short against his scalp. He gestures to the scene before them, “They paid their debts for the sake of their kingdoms.”

“What purpose does a kingdom serve if there is no one to thrive within it?” His words are soft, yet with a heaviness that only he can create.

“Power. The people have never mattered to a kingdom. Only power.” If the second knight felt the weight of the first’s words, he did not show it.

“What a sad thing to strive for.”

“Someone must do it. You and I both have, once before.”

The first knight has not forgotten. Ages before, in the prime of their youth, he remembers the battles. The hunts for glory, for conquest, for fame. He grimaces to himself now, shaking his head. He had been a fool, to pick sides as if right and wrong were so easy, as if things were as even as the edge of a blade. Life does not work that way.

“And now?”

The second knight readies his sword. “Now we fight because we want no one to do it for us.”

The first knight sighs. “I believed in you, once. You were like a brother to me,” he draws his own sword, and the two begin to circle each other. “Now you are nothing more than a withered, stubborn old man clawing at the fringes of glory, hoping to matter once more.”

“If you live beyond this encounter,” the second knight strikes and misses, “you will simply take on that role as well.”

The first knight swings his sword from the side, blade digging up red tinted dirt as �"

 

 

A torch is lit. A young boy, no more than seven or eight years of age, makes his way down a stone path. There is something he saw the other day that intrigued him, so he had no choice but to investigate. It is simply in his nature.

He treads gleefully into a clearing, off the stones and toward the center of a field, where a statue rests. When he arrives he notices how old it is; vines and moss and other earthly means washing this stone clean of previous incisions. Making it once more into a rock than a work of art.

From what the boy can make out it is a knight, someone in a suit of armor who is leaning on a sword. It is a humble stance, one of respect and honor, but such a notion is lost on the boy. Instead he stares down at the plaque engraved with a language he is not familiar with, the symbols eroded and consumed by the green of nature. It is an interesting monument indeed, a small symbol signifying something important had happened, though now no one is sure what.

The boy shrugs, giving the statue one last glance before walking away. 

Author's Note

An old piece.