Everything Ends Eventually
Ten days ago, the fields of Gorae were quiet. Calm. Fertile land extended for miles, crossing rolling hills and breaching the borders of the thick forest-line cut-out that mapped the outskirts of their city kingdom. Farmers tended their crops. Mothers tended their children. The sun rose and fell, and all things were in their right place. The miles of tended land surrounded the rising houses on all sides, structures all built into one place, interconnected, and melded together into a rising palace that many thought to touch the heavens with its central tower.
Two hundred years ago, the first structure was built upon a defensible hill. Fourteen refugees of a then lost country found solace within. They were hunted. The hill, mountainous in figure, welcomed them. The trees concealed them. They built the stone hut with their bare hands; they downed the trees surrounding the near-mountain of a hill; and spent years developing that single structure.
Fifty years in the future, a cold wind chills Gorae. No flame heats the palace. No cold breaths fill the cramped homes. The overgrowth of fields is subdued by feet of snow
Eight days ago, the fields went unattended. Shutters were closed in every house, by ever citizen. The wails of children were hushed. The carpenter shop at the northern tree-line was quiet.
A hundred-ninety years ago, children were born. Decades passed and room was required. They added height to their defensible fort. In centuries, population boomed. The fort’s founders passed, and soon individual homes connected to it. They descended the mountain of a hill. Roads cut through the maze of a structure. Home owners paved the doors between structures. The fort rose into the sky. The founders’ descendants erected towers upon the four corners. In time, they built a central tower. A monarchy unnamed rested its crown within. The fort had become a palace, and the maze of structures descended from it became its people.
Four hundred years in the future, the tree-line wins the battle against man. It has taken the fields, then overgrown beyond recognition, and broken through the first house. The roof caves and the walls will shudder with years. Worn paintings upon the floor erode from dust. The likeness of the family is lost with time.
Five days ago, the men of Gorae stood at the base of their mountain-city. Shadows lingered beyond the tree-line, and the people of Gorae dared not draw first blood. Armed, they stood two hundred strong. They were trained for this day. It was said to be inevitable.
A hundred-fifty years ago, the fort then known as Gora was nearly burned to the ground. Shady figures perused the tree-line for days. Ghosts of the founders’ discarded history, they commenced their first assault. An elderly founder, a former knight of their lost country, died fending them off the cloaked men. Young men and old men alike armed themselves and prepared for invasion.
A thousand years in the future, none know the name “Gorae” to speak of.
Three days ago, the first silhouette revealed itself. The armed conscripts of Gorae, Goraemin, prepared themselves. The first of the silhouettes was a man of experience. He’d long, blond hair, and a full beard that showed the faint signs of aged gray. The Goraemin were confused by his tattered attire, the torn cloth about his dark plates of armor, but alarmed by his arms and build. Aged though he was, he carried ax not made for destroying trees. He was larger than any Goraemin had ever seen, the type of man that could kill an ox unarmed. He surveyed the castle-city with tired blue eyes. He released a sigh and turned back to the tree-line.
A hundred years ago, the invasion had yet to come. Scribes, however, wrote frequently of the threat for years, and the monarch Gorae refused to acknowledge the concept of peace. Haunted by the stories of war passed down by his parents, the founders of Gora, the old man instilled the fear of death into his people. Arms were produced with regularity and men of adequate age were drafted into the conscript army. They were never needed.
Fifteen hundred years in the future, the castle of Gorae is mostly ruin. The tree-line has taken the last stronghold of a lost civilization.
Three days ago, the rest of the silhouettes came. Their armed bodies poured in slow precession from the tree-line. Dark plates covered every inch of their bodies, some small, some hulking. A farmer conscript of Gorae watched with knowing eyes as his city was surrounded within the hour. He could not count their numbers. He checked his gray two-hander and sighed. The middle-aged farmer knew what was to come.
Eleven days ago, the carpenters at the tree-line spotted the first shadows. One carpenter was sent to investigate. Only a muffled cry answered the rest of them. They prepared to leave, but the shadows quickly descended upon them and distant as they were to Gorae, separated by miles of fields, their deaths went unheard. The farmer is the first out that far. He was the first to discover the dead, and the first to return word of war to the city.
Two thousand years in the future, a traveling musician sits on stage at a watering hole. He is an imposing man, tall and muscular, with long dark hair and a thin beard. His eyes speak experience that no man or woman of the watering hole can claim. Few, however, pay him mind. Most are merry in personal conversation and their drinks of choice. The musician runs his fingers across his lyre. He parts his lips and in a deep voice and dissolute poetics, tells of a forgotten city’s final days.
* * *
Ansgar of Nevvi longed to return home. Lindi, his young bride, awaited him in Nevvi. She probably thought him dead by now. He was supposed to have returned three months prior, but their task was still unfulfilled. The monarch of Nevvi would have had each of their heads were they to return empty handed.
It was six months since he’d seen the palace of Nevvi. Five of those months were spent trawling the forest of Gora, searching for the fabled city of Gorae. He was given a force five hundred men strong and three months worth of provisions. By the sixth month, their provisions were dry. The men were starving. Five hundred were barely capable of getting by on what they hunted in the forest of Gora. The city of Gorae was too cleverly hidden, and the forests were thick and easy to lose themselves within . . .
On the day that they finally discovered Gorae, the Nevvigmin, worn by travel and starvation, were unable to respond at once. They drew first blood upon those that saw them in the tree-line, but spent days in rest and deliberation.
The task was granted to him seven months prior. He was home, then, comfortable in the thatches and stone he’d piled himself on the day of his wedding. He ate what he’d hunted, what Lindi had prepared.
She was a beautiful girl, though barely of age to wed. She was, regrettably, a victim of society. Her father was killed in a skirmish, and her mother died of flu. Alone, she almost perished to winter, but was picked up by Ansgar and permitted to stay in the warmth of his abode.
Winter turned to spring, spring to summer, and before Ansgar realized it, three winters passed and the girl was yet to leave him—and he yet to remove her.
He was older and she too young to understand him, but she loved him all the same. Over the time he let her stay with him, he, too, felt for her the infatuation she had for him. Ansgar admitted it only when he proposed to wed the girl. She was in her sixteenth year, then, and Ansgar was approaching his fortieth. The marriage of such an age gap was not uncommon, however, and was well accepted in Nevvi.
It took two years of marriage for Ansgar to fully grasp how much Lindi understood him: perfectly. Despite their generational difference, Lindi knew and accepted all there was to know and accept about Ansgar of Nevvi.
Their dinner was interrupted by a messenger of Nevvi. Ansgar and Lindi lived out beyond the great port city of Nevvi, deep in the recesses of wilderness, but as a thirty-year soldier, Ansgar was well known by the long reigning monarch of Nevvi. He was given the task and promised payment beyond any he’d ever seen, monetary sums that could allow Lindi the best life a man could offer.
Ansgar accepted it, and Lindi understood his reasons. He kissed his young wife goodbye and set out for Nevvi, and the men the monarch had prepared for him.
The idea of an attack pained him. The day Ansgar, alone, left the cover of the tree-line, he saw all that Gorae had to offer: men that were scarcely better than his own, even in their state of famine, and half-strong in numbers. They had chosen not to occupy higher ground, perhaps for fear of civilian involvement—and ultimately they were weaker for it. Under any other circumstances, he’d have negotiated with the Goraemin for provisions and a sign of surrender. Ansgar of Nevvi surveyed the city, sighed, and returned to the tree-line.
That night, with his most trusted Nevvigmin, he deliberated the fate of Gorae. There were four of them, including Ansgar. The fifth died of sickness a month prior. Around a weak fire, they sat in contemplation.
“We must attack,” the eldest under Ansgar insisted.
“But what do we stand to gain?” asked the younger.
The eldest shook his head. “I fear dissolute in the men. Desertion. Treason, perhaps.”
“Treason?” cried the youngest.
The eldest nodded. “If we do not fight, these months will have felt for naught.”
Silence took hold of the makeshift council. It was to be Ansgar’s final said, but at first he said little. He instead looked for the reactions of his kinsmen and searched their feelings. One after the other, they looked to him for an answer. Time became Ansgar’s bitter enemy.
“Do the men hunger for battle so much?” Ansgar asked the eldest below him.
“It is not battle they seek, it is purpose.”
“Purpose?”
The eldest nodded. “A reason to have traveled so long. A reason to have lost so many. They want their lives and deaths to have purpose.”
Ansgar watched between the eldest, the younger, and the youngest. He could see agreement in his younger kinsmen. With a sigh, Ansgar resigned to his council.
“Very well . . .”
Stories told of knights and the glory of battle are little more than fairy tales. The idealized warrior never truly existed. The feudal ways were tyranny. The knights of old were glorified mercenaries. Neither the Goraemin nor the Nevvigmin were strangers to these facts.
The morning of the attack was the worst of them. Weary from travel, the Nevvigmin charge was full of holes. The men were unable to hold a solid line together, and though much better prepared for war than the Goraemin, none of the front lines lived to see the third and final day. One by one, Nevvigmin fell to the spearheads of Gorae. Their approach was quick and their fall was hard. For half a day’s time, they attempted to breach the scarcely trained front lines of Gorae, but for the first day, success was unfounded. Within a half a day’s time, a retreat was called.
Death was gritty upon the field. Much more Nevvigmin perished than Goraemin in the first day. Hunger and travel weariness wore upon the men, made them all feel heavier and less capable. Many were lightheaded and tired. One man even exhausted himself into unconsciousness by the sixth hour. They fought hard, however, and by the end of the first day, the men of Gorae were no less tired than the men of Nevvi.
Beyond fatigue and hunger, the worst of the problems that plagued the men of Nevvi were arms. When a man’s weapon sinks into another’s body, it is often lost. Metal, when pierced, has a habit of claiming all that pierces it. Few truly keep the same weapon for the duration of battle, and so often replace lost instruments of death with the discarded weapons of the recently deceased.
Spears were favored by the Goraemin. They were not so easily lost, and much easier to control than the two handed blade favored by Nevvi. Their ease of use allowed Goraemin easy access to the throats of Nevvigmin, a tactic to which many fell.
The second day began on equal grounds. The night before, the surviving Nevvigmin, who still greatly outnumbered the forces of Gorae, rested well and gorged themselves upon the last of their provisions. The first day guaranteed for the Nevvigmin that victory or death awaited them in Gorae. They would not return from Gorae defeated.
Though the second day bore more promise than the first, Ansgar was disgusted. The day prior told him enough of his poor decision, and now he had little choice but to accept it. Risking treason and disillusionment may have perhaps been better than lasting through the first day; better than seeing this battle to completion. For the duration, Ansgar remained at the tree-line.
Amongst the Goraemin, one posed the greatest threat to Nevvi’s dwindling army: The farmer that first alerted Gorae of Nevvi’s approach. Ansgar of Nevvi heard report after report of his exploits. Not knowing his name, the men took to calling him Rīpere. While most Goraemin chose the distance offered by bows and spears, Rīpere was said to be a master of all the sort. He assaulted the opening charge from within the city, reliably sinking trained shots through the throats of Nevvigmin, all with a simple long bow. The stories about him suggested he hadn’t missed once.
When he extinguished his ammunition, Rīpere discarded his bow and joined the fray. He was reported by Nevvigmin later that night to have fought in an inhuman way. Some even ventured as far to call him bestial.
Rīpere was said to charge first with a spear, with which he ran a Nevvigmin through with all the strength of an ox. The metal plate over the Nevvigmin’s chest did little to protect him; it was pierced with minimal resistance. He spewed blood from his lips as he was lifted by the spear, and according to the supposed witnesses, used as a blunt weapon against his allies. Rīpere was said to remain untouched for the entirety of the second day, and only retreated to the castle city’s front lines when the day drew to a close. He fought without fatigue or pause to rest.
The other side of the city’s assault, on which Ansgar stood for the second day, had gone smoothly. The Gorae were ultimately pushed back, and suffered half their numbers in losses. Nevvigmin casualties were counted on four hands, while on the other side, though many Goraemin fell, the entire sum of the first day’s casualties met the Nevvigmin just as well.
The notion that one man had the strength to use a human being’s body as a physical weapon struck Ansgar as foolhardy. Still wrought with disgust, he disregarded these tall tales until the third and final day. The day Ansgar saw the truth of his men’s tales.
It began with the initial charge at daybreak. A man stood at the front lines of Gorae, where spearmen mostly lined, and bore no arms. When the first Nevvigmin was almost in the reach of spearheads, he charged. Unarmed, he thrust himself upon the Nevvigmin, ducked beneath his heavy swing, and bore his shoulder into the Nevvigmin’s off-balance frame, throwing him to the ground. Intrigued, Ansgar, at the tree-line with his council, watched the man as he stamped his foot upon his fallen foe’s throat, collapsed his wind-pipe, and left him to slow, torturous death. He plundered from the fallen his two handed blade, and charged the Nevvigmin as they had Gorae.
Even unarmed, Rīpere was an imposing man. He was easily as tall as Ansgar and built, perhaps, with equal destructive capabilities. He’d long, dark hair and a pale face. He’d thin facial hair and wrinkles of age beneath his eyes. Neither fear nor rage took hold of the man’s features; no matter who he smote or how he smote him, Rīpere was calm. Collected. He attacked, but was never tense. In war, he was at ease.
Beyond the man’s intimidating frame and demeanor, his eyes were the most memorable about him: a golden, burning yellow.
Rīpere carried a two handed sword like a paperweight. His strikes were flawless, followed through as if the sword had no weight at all, and no matter the nature of his strikes, cuts or stabs, the metal of Nevvigmin armor bore him no resistance. He charged Nevvigmin before they had the chance to have at him first. He’d cut across one and turn to rush another. He’d run one through and pilfer his blade before he fell—then turn and assault another. At one point, Ansgar was certain he witnessed this man Rīpere grip another human being by the wrist and throat, pushing on the latter and pulling on the former, until both his arm was dislodged within his armor and his neck was snapped.
It was as the men told: Rīpere charged without hesitation or break. For hours, he took life after life, and never allowed a single man to lay a hand upon him, let alone a blade. He’d separated himself from the defending Goraemin and thrust himself into the middle of Nevvigmin lines—and there he seemed content.
Rīpere, however, was only one man. A terror on the battlefield though he was, he could not defend the entirety of Gorae’s lines. At Ansgar’s orders, he was surrounded and kept distant from the city.
It took only hours for Gorae to fall.
Rīpere, however, did not end his battle. He continued to tear through Nevvigmin, long after the last defending Goraemin fell. It was as if Gorae ceased to be his priority, as if only the battle truly mattered. Nevvigmin encircled him by the dozen, but few dared assail him. When truly surrounded, Rīpere drew silent and stood still. Nevvigmin about him, however, knew not to approach. Rīpere was a monster upon the field; he’d have taken the life of any who dared approach.
Interest in Rīpere drew Ansgar to the circle. He set his hands upon allied shoulders and silently commanded them to make way. Ansgar became the first to break the circle, and immediately had Rīpere’s attention.
“Your fight is done, Rīpere,” Ansgar announced lowly, “You are the final Goraemin. Lay down your arms.”
Rīpere, as they called him, thought of the name and regarded it with an accepting nod. He did not, however, lay down his arms.
“Did you not hear me?” ordered Ansgar, “Your fight has ended.”
Rīpere surveyed the men about him. They were armed to the teeth and waiting for the opportunity to run him through. He turned his golden eyes to Ansgar and nodded—but he did not lay down his arms.
“Everyone, everything, everywhere . . .” whispered Rīpere.
Ansgar furrowed his brow. He watched as the man they called Rīpere lifted his hefty blade, pilfered from a fallen Nevvigmin, and indicatively pointed its tip for Ansgar. Separated by a dozen and a half feet and surrounded by twice that number in Nevvigmin, Rīpere was no threat.
“ . . . ends,” continued Rīpere, louder now. Deep. Gruff. “Eventually.”
The threat to their leader set the Nevvigmin on guard. The two Nevvigmin closest to Ansgar stepped forward. They raised their blades aggressively and prepared to take another step. Ansgar, however, set his armored hands upon their shoulders and drew his kinsmen back. The younger of the two looked to him quizzically, at which Ansgar merely nodded. They returned to the circle, and Ansgar of Nevvi replaced them in forward step.
“What will you gain from fighting me, Rīpere?” questioned Ansgar as he paced the edge of the circle. “Glory? Honor? You will be struck down if you defeat me. There will be no honor for you to claim. No glory. Your name will be lost to time.”
Rīpere nodded again. He bent at his knees to lay down his sword, and at first Ansgar assumed he’d given up. But as he stood, Rīpere recalled the gauntlets from his hands, one after the other, and let them fall to the earth. He stretched his fingers and squeezed his hands into tight fists. A satisfying pop resounded from his knuckles, and he set his arms by his sides. This time, it was for Ansgar to nod. Silently, Rīpere had issued the rules of combat, and Ansgar abided. He lay down his ax and stripped of his gauntlets.
“Only you stand to gain, Ansgar of Nevvi,” replied Rīpere at long last; his voice was low and commanding, “And it is better for one to gain than none at all.”
The Nevvigmin commander frowned. “You call this a duel of pity, then, Goraemin?”
Rīpere shook his head. “There is neither pity nor plea. You will earn your glory, Nevvigmin, or you will fall with Gorae.”
For five months, Ansgar hadn’t heard “honor” or “glory” in any serious light. Bravado fell after the first month of travel, and by the sixth and final month, the only thing his men sought was food and drink to sustain their famished bodies. The fire of their souls and hunger for glory had all but faded, and the more they fought the Goraemin, barely defended as they were, that fire was extinguished. But for Ansgar of Nevvi, at that very moment, the flame returned. He thought of honor, respect, and glory for the first time in months. So long it was, Ansgar almost forgot the feeling it gifted.
Ansgar lifted his hands to ear height. He clenched his hands into loose fists, and to Rīpere across from him, replied, “Very well.”
It began with Rīpere. Ansgar motioned for his commencement, and Rīpere wasted no time. He charged and, without even a second thought, went for Ansgar’s throat, as he so often did to Nevvigmin in battle. Ansgar gripped Rīpere by the wrist before it was too late, but was unable to halt his charge. With his bare fist, Rīpere struck his hand against the side of Ansgar’s armor’s chest.
Ansgar recoiled. He stepped back with his left foot and took in a sharp breath. Rīpere’s raw strength was enough to do him harm, even through the thick plate mail of Ansgar’s preference. Ansgar shoved Rīpere’s wrist back with the pinnacle of his own strength, and with his other hand reared back, threw his fist into Rīpere’s jaw. Rīpere stumbled, withdrew from Ansgar, and steadied himself.
The moment was used to Ansgar’s advantage. This time, he charged Rīpere. He rushed for Rīpere, and perhaps to establish himself as an equal threat, reared back a fist and lodged it into the center of the man’s armored chest. It sent shocks of pain through Ansgar’s fist and Rīpere’s chest both, but Rīpere responded in tow. Far from winded, he lodged his own fist into Ansgar’s ribs. Ansgar felt a dent in his armor grate his skin. His feet carried him to the right—feet which soon worked hard to keep him standing, as Rīpere thrust his fist into Ansgar’s cheek.
“You are the strongest of Nevvi,” Rīpere declared as he straightened his posture.
Ansgar rubbed his cheek with an open hand. He, too, straightened himself. “There are many stronger than I, Rīpere.”
Rīpere shook his head. “Nevvi recognizes strength. You are its commander, and now . . . you fight a man you call Reaper on equal grounds.”
“Equal?” Ansgar, for the first time in months, felt himself laugh. “Rīpere, your blows are Death itself.”
Rīpere lifted his hands. “As are yours, Ansgar of Nevvi.”
Rīpere rushed for him. Expecting a blow for his face, Ansgar lifted his forearms to protect his skull. Rīpere thrust his fist, instead, into Ansgar’s gut. The metal protecting his hide bent and painfully jabbed his skin. He hunched over, breathless, but in spite of it all, grasped Rīpere by the shoulders. He was to hunch, but of his own volition: Ansgar shoved his forehead into Rīpere’s, instantly putting distance between them.
Blood collected. Scarlet ran down each man’s brow, cuts opened upon their foreheads. Neither man paid it mind. They straightened themselves and approached, this time in tandem.
Ansgar threw a fist for Rīpere’s face. Rīpere lifted his arms, and Ansgar met only his forearms—but he did not stop. He drove a strike into Rīpere’s ribs, and ignoring the pain and blood collected at his knuckles, followed through with a second blow to Rīpere’s chest. Rīpere, showing the faintest signs of injury, pushed Ansgar by the shoulders with all his strength. Ansgar’s feet nearly fell from beneath him. He stumbled, but was soon ground, as Rīpere charged shoulder first into Ansgar’s chest.
Both men downed and Rīpere atop Ansgar, Rīpere drew a fist back and plummeted into Ansgar’s cheek. The raw strength of the man rendered Ansgar’s sight a series of dark blotches. Willpower drove him, however, and he refused to grant Rīpere this opportune position. He drove his knee up, jabbed it as hard as he possibly could into Rīpere’s side, about the region of his kidney. Rīpere grunted and recoiled, and Ansgar used the moment to throw Rīpere off him.
Ansgar returned the situation. Once Rīpere was grounded, he pinned him, and landed as many blows to the man’s face as time allowed. One after another, Ansgar barraged Rīpere’s skull with his bare, bleeding knuckles. By the time Rīpere knees Ansgar in the back and threw him off, Rīpere’s face was colored in blotches of red—his own blood in parts, by cuts under his eyes and upon his cheeks, and parts blood of Ansgar’s opened knuckles.
The two of them stood, both now equally winded by damage.
The Nevvi had no intentions on harming the people of Gorae, only crippling its military. The women and children were to go unharmed. After the fifth month, no Nevvigmin sought the total domination and murder of the city, but the supplies to allow their return to Nevvi.
Provisions. Supplies. The first Nevvigmin to break into the stone houses at the base of the mountain demanded them. It was in the midst of Ansgar’s melee with Rīpere that the regrettable happened. A woman, pained by the loss of her husband, refused to grant a Nevvigmin the food he demanded. He shoved her down and raided her house, regardless.
The woman, distraught by war, let out the first scream of Gorae. She took the lantern warming her house at mid-day and broke it across the back of the Nevvigmin in her home. He stumbled and felt warmth running along his armor—but only realized the truth when it was too late, and the lantern’s oil had him sufficiently aflame. Panicked, he ran for her, for the kitchen, for water, for anything, until collapsing in the woman’s home.
Flames licked his body, rose, and caught upon the wooden shelves of her kitchen. In minutes, smoke rose through her windows. In ten, fire overtook the home.
Ansgar looked up. Both he and Rīpere heard the shrill scream in the distance, though it took them a moment to react. Both men straightened in posture, they turned to Gorae in time to see tragedy as it struck: the fire of one house quickly spread for another. Both men watched as flames spread and climbed the mountain, slowly, but with all the rage of a dying nation.
It wasn’t what Ansgar prepared for.
“Gods be damned!” he growled.
The younger of Ansgar’s council broke through the circle; he set a hand upon Ansgar’s shoulder and shook his attention away. “Ser Ansgar, if the city burns, we’ll not have the supplies to retur—“
But Ansgar interrupted him. He shoved the younger away and sneered. “And the people of Gorae will be lost.”
In minutes, the fire spread too far. The old wood connecting homes was dry and caught easily. Panic filled the evening as Nevvigmin retreated from Gorae and surrounded as Goraemin had before them.
“You mourn for Gorae?” asked Rīpere, breaking the silence between them.
“For Gorae?” replied Ansgar as he turned to Rīpere.
Ansgar took his eyes from his opponent for the first time. He looked to the fires already starting through the castle-city. He listened to the cries of those within. He breathed through his nose and smelled the scent of fire and death that so readily spread about him. He shut his eyes, faced Rīpere, and nodded.
“Gorae is not yours to mourn,” Rīpere replied without hesitation.
Ansgar opened his eyes. “The blood of Gorae will stain my hands and none others’. This was a needless battle. Why should I not mourn?”
“Everyone, everything, everywhere,” Rīpere repeated, “Ends eventually.” Rīpere held out his arm, an open hand outstretched for the burning city. “Someday, it would fall. Someday, they’d all have died. If not today, if not this year, then ten years from now. If not by you, then by a man less noble.”
Rīpere lifted his fists. Ansgar drew a deep breath. His thoughts drifted to Lindi, to how lost she’d be if he could not return. To how many women like her were trapped upon a burning mountain.
Ansgar lifted his fists.
The orange glow of the mountain revoked the darkness of night, treated day as night and night as day. The shadows of Ansgar and Rīpere sparred with knuckles locked together. Nevvigmin watched the duel in the orange glow of the night, but neither Ansgar nor Rīpere noticed them. They fought as dissolute and lost beasts, god-men that hadn’t life left beyond their own battle.
Ansgar bore his forehead into Rīpere’s. With knuckles locked and Rīpere pushing with unequaled might, Ansgar had little choice but to distract Rīpere from it—pain him where he’d be most weakened. Rīpere’s grip loosened, as did Ansgar’s. After the fourth lunge for Rīpere’s head, Rīpere released Ansgar’s fists and stepped back. Ansgar, though as weary as Rīpere, drew back his right fist. With all the strength he could muster, strength diminished by hours of their grappling, he opened the scabs of his knuckles on Rīpere’s brow.
Rīpere stumbled. Black spots filled his vision and lightheadedness, compounded from so many blows to his skull, got the best of him. Weight upon his knees dragged him down, and he fell. His greaves dug into the earth and his body sulked with the weight of defeat. His breaths were hard and forced, and the threats of blackout weakened his arms. Against his weakness, however, Rīpere looked up to Ansgar above him. Through black splotches in his vision, he could barely see the man.
“Defeat is mine,” whispered Rīpere, his voice hazy and hollowed by fatigue.
Ansgar stood before him. Neither man was in shape to continue fighting. It had come to this, and evenly matched though they were, only one could remain standing in the end. Ansgar’s armor was riddled with depressions and blood soaked his beard. Cuts upon his brow rendered one eye useless. Willpower alone—for what, he no longer knew—kept him standing.
As if it were ritual, the youngest of Ansgar’s council retrieved the ax abandoned in the beginning. He stopped by Ansgar’s side and held the weapon out for him. Ansgar regarded him with a weak nod, and took the ax from him. It felt heavy in his hands; he could barely lift it with one hand.
“You . . . you fought well, Rīpere,” Ansgar declared weakly.
Rīpere nodded. “And you.”
Ansgar lifted the ax with both hands. The weight of it against his tattered body made him want to cave as Rīpere before him. But he held strong. He hoisted it over his shoulder and worked and steadying it in his hands long before he let it hover above Rīpere’s throat. He demanded the strength to hold it there, to keep it above Rīpere and stave off his execution until the time was right.
The ax was steady, held far above Rīpere’s neck. It remained there for some time. Parting words. Ansgar was allowing Rīpere to knowingly draw a final breath. Rīpere shut his eyes. He drew in a breath, and delivered a self elegy, words Ansgar would later carve into an unmarked grave:
“Perhaps someday, Death, too, shall end.”
* * *
The traveling musician sets his lyre down. His song is finished. He collected only half of the drunks’ attention, but cares little for it. He watches their reactions with dull yellow eyes, but does not seek applause or praise. Some clap as he leaves the stage. Some truly impressed, others to fit in. The musician collects his payment from the watering hole’s tender, who commends his storytelling and tips him double. He watches the tender’s eyes.
“Can I ask you a question, though?” The tender says before the musician can leave. The musician looks to him quizzically. “Ansgar and the Nevvigmin—they had no supplies to support a return trip, right? Did they ever make it back home?”
The musician rolls his shoulders. “Would it be just?”
“Well . . .” the tender trails off. “Ansgar was a good man, wasn’t he?”
The musician nods.
“It’d be a shame for him to be lost because of . . . well, a bad call and a few accidents gone horribly wrong. And wouldn’t that leave his bride alone again?”
The musician nods. “The story ends how you’d wish it. Everything ends eventually, even Death. How, it scarcely matters.”
The tender furrows his brow, confounded, but before he can inquire further, the musician turns from him and takes his leave of the watering hole—leaving the sack of coins, his payment in the currency of man, behind.
