Cyril didn't continue to hold his grip. He just needed his head loose again. Once his opponent had done that and Cyril was freed from the compromising position, he was more than happy to let go. The dangers of having his head trapped had just been too high for anything less...

It was painful, though not unexpected as his opponent held his head and bashed the side of his head repeatedly. Each blow seemed to induce a lot more blackness around the area of his vision, but Cyril needed to do some real damage before he fled, enough to slow his opponent down. To that effect, his hand would move up, formed into a fist, aimed repeatedly at his opponent's neck. Rather than try to choke or grab, he would just punch the man's neck, a blow that could kill or incapacitate outright, especially with his opponent still short of air. After a few seconds, though, he would abandon that course of attack, his vision tunneling too much and his consciousness waning. Placing both hands on his opponent's chest, he would push out to roll away, remaining on the ground for a few moments to allow his vision to return and his unbelievable headache to abate to a point where he could think.

"Yeah, that was certainly a stupid idea to make things like that..."

Reaching out, Cyril would grab a chair leg, pushing it against the ground awkwardly to get to his feet. The side and back of his head were bruised and swollen, but he was still awake. His unfortunately personal line of attack wasn't something he was ashamed of, either... The universe was at stake, after all... He had to be as effective as possible...

"And I'm glad. We didn't sit down and set any rules here when we started. You just hit me in the back of the head with a piece of pipe!"

"Hah . . . hah . . . well, better, now?" the young man coughed.

Actually, he was a bit more out of breath than he had originally anticipated. He was more on par to Cyril than he thought; a miscalculation that had him reeling. Whereas, Cyril was weak from all the abuse he had progressively received over time--all of which had barely been attended to. But the guy had more stanima than most gods could genuinely claim. Essentially, they were equal. The only thing he had over Cyril was the weapon, but that seemed to at least make up for the size issue--possibly making the fight even more fair.

"That you got that out of your system . . ." he elaborated.

He needed a moment of recooperation, but so did Cyril--it wasn't like either man was going to be lunging at one another within the next few minutes. Afterwards, though . . . there was a good chance for that. The man finally was able to catch his breath and straighten up, now devoid of pain in his back and otherwise; those were now just minor discomforts, all but lost by this point.

Again, he cocked his head from side to side, cracking his neck. Now that he wasn't out of breath, he lifted his arm, pointing the lead pipe at Cyril. He wasn't going to rush the man this time. Now, it was Cyril's turn to get the first attack. There was a good chance that the young man had never actually personally fought before, or at least did so minimally, but he did at least seem to have a certain degree of "honesty" with it. He'd take advantage of any weakness Cyril may have, but he'd still leave him opportunities here and there.

"Let's put an end to this world."

"After all this, you think getting in a cheap shot on you is going to make me feel better? No, no... I'm petty, but not that petty. You've got a whole lot more to answer for than just that, besides..."

Cyril was willing to rest, and perhaps, really, unable to continue without it. It felt strange... Urgent. His body was sending him a lot of signs, and none of them were good. The message was clear, in any case. He was mortal. No matter how much he wanted to believe otherwise, there were limits to what he could do with his body, and he was approaching them. The amount of rest and recuperation he was facing would be perhaps worse than the punishment he'd endured already. There was even a chance he was permanently damaging himself to go this far...

"We're not ending it. Only changing it!"

Cyril would stand up as well, no longer leaning on the chair leg. He had to be smarter! His opponent wasn't, perhaps, supernaturally powerful, but he was powerful enough that Cyril couldn't afford to make mistakes. One good shot between them was all it was going to take to end things... And Cyril now had a weapon, but it was weaker. It would splinter quickly if struck by the pipe, much like the chair itself had... Cyril would walk towards his opponent, taking a different direction. Arm raised high, he waited until he was very nearly in range of the pipe, stopping and remaining loose. From there, he drew back, and would heave his remaining weapon at his opponent's head. It was a foolhardy strategy, but one he had to risk. If the opponent drew back to block, Cyril would have something of an opening. Rushing in, he would try to receive the inevitable counterattack with his hands lightly, guiding the pipe to impact with a reduced force against his chest. Then, he would grip the weapon, intending to wrestle the thing away from his opponent...

The young man smiled a bit as Cyril charged. They were on those kinds of terms, it seemed; but that's how it had been for awhile. They didn't have to meet in order to be acquainted; it felt like he knew and had been fighting Cyril forever. It may have been the same for Cyril, too.

A piece of the chair to the head. It was able to be dealt with. Cyril was the larger of the two; any hit from him was certain to hurt. He stepped back as soon as Cyril was in range, swinging his weapon up, crashing it against the piece of wood, but not leaving it, there. Just as Cyril started to move forward, he stepped in, bringing the pipe down, and attempting to slam it end first into the bottom of Cyril's neck. At that point, he could either step back and take a weaker blow or move to either side and completely disengage from the man, but as it was, he'd be forced to dodge. Given no time to block it, he'd have to either move or suffer a wound that he may not have recovered from.

After the fact, whether or not Cyril moved out of the way, the man would take several steps back, purposefully disengaging. He was reminded of something. It really wasn't important, but the thought was amusing enough that he figured that he'd just go with it . . .

"I haven't always been a dormant watcher," he began as he idly swung his pipe; rotating it in a circle, really, "In fact, I was once known as Mairse. I studied fencing during that time, became a local legend, and disappeared into the sunset. Romantic, don't you think?"

The man slid his left foot back, standing up straight. He was assuming a stance--he was getting ready for a slightly increased show of skill, but not much. The only thing he was going to have over Cyril would be a slight bit of manueverability and it'd just be harder to get his weapon off of him.

This was no special skill, really. He just knew what he was doing a bit more than Cyril. This made up for the size difference; essentially, it was the only thing that was going to make the battle fair. Cyril, whose stamina and strength were worth boasting, and the young man once known as "Mairse," who aside from having essentially average strength, knew how to use it decently.

As he assumed that stance, he remarked: "I'm rusty as hell, but that's more than enough to snuff you out."

Cyril, on failing to sufficiently knock his foe's weapon, would disengage and no longer approach. He could take a blow to the chest. There was more than enough body there to protect him from harm. The head or neck were going to be less effective in enduring blows. As a positive, there were more chair legs and pieces around, and he didn't immediately have to respond as his opponent talked. If he had an opportunity for a shot at his opponent, sure, he'd take it. Until then, though... It was interesting...

"So you used to be a swordsman for fun... That's interesting. You know, I'm a fairly talented marksman, myself..."

Cyril would slowly circle to another chair leg, bending down to pick it up and smiling just a bit. His opponent didn't have a sword at least. That would have proved more troublesome. Aiming the first fingers on his primary hand at the other man's face and snapping his thumb in imitation of a gun firing, Cyril would accompany it with a simple sound effect.

"Bang! Now you're dead. If you could just set down that pipe, we'll be done here... No, I guess that wouldn't work. You don't have a sword, though. There's only so much you can do with that thing..."

It was true. A pipe wasn't a sword, and more than that, it wasn't really a weapon at all. At least, not a designated one. It wasn't as fast or as stable as a weapon would be, and it wasn't really possibly to use moves retained by muscle memory for the awkward grip and balance it would give. Not that it wasn't still deadly...

"Any chance of us setting these toys down and having it out like a couple of 'honorable' men?"

It was a self-serving question, of course. His weapon was inferior. His opponent seemed eager to hurt him, perhaps even more than kill him. It was perhaps a bit more personal for the man-god than the mortal who opposed him. Cyril was used to fighting people with more status than himself. His opponent wasn't used to losing, especially to someone like him...

"Heh. It's true," he held the lead pipe up, "As a weapon, it's pretty much got one use. It hits hard. That's about all. It's weighted all wrong and is pretty much bent to hell. But that's good enough. I can still hold it well and keep it with me. Think about it: if that's an advantage I have here, it's still an advantage."

And indeed, it was a terrible weapon; it was bent and after a few more uses, might not even have a purpose as a weapon anymore. Every hit he landed with it just made it worse, so it only had so much use left. Nonetheless, it was already quite stained with Cyril's blood. It may very well have outlived its usefulness already, but so long as it was in tact, it was an advantage over Cyril.

With little to work with, who wouldn't take it? It wasn't like either of these two men were trying to make this a fair fight or anything. Any little advantage they could get over one another was going to be taken--he knew that, and Cyril must have, too.

In fact, if Cyril still had his gun, he likely would have shot it already. Fortunately for him, disarming came after the initial knock-out. That gun was elsewhere now; not to be used against him.

He quirked a brow, both surprised by Cyril's words and dreadfully amused. "Are you seriously trying to suggest that you and I are honorable men?"

"I don't blame you. It was worth a shot, though. And no, I know we're not honorable men. I just wanted to know if you wanted to act like honorable men. Worth a try, anyway..."

Cyril breathed in deeply, sighing. The situation he was in was... Crazy. He didn't doubt his cause. No matter what his opponent wanted, or how bad the universe was, he couldn't just let it be destroyed. That was thousands or even millions of lives, mostly innocent people, whose blood would be on his hands (even though he would be gone as well). And Edii's... Cyril had given Edii some choice words about the situation, but he couldn't even trust his friend, now... That was why he was here, trying to kill the creator of the universe...

"You know... At this point, I don't think anyone would blame me if I just gave up. You've put an awful lot of responsibility on my shoulders. Not only did I get stuck with Edii's burden, but I got stuck with everything else you've given me... And he's immortal! I'm only mortal..."

Cyril stood up, shifting slightly to test just how much he had left in his body. Everything hurt, even the places where he hadn't been struck (which were becoming rarer and rarer). Maybe this was it, though. One way or another, he'd rest after this. And then... Well, that was thinking way too far ahead...

The pipe, fortunately, was close to breaking on his body. Or unfortunately, perhaps. He could only endure so much more punishment from it, despite the fact that it had hurt him so much already... Looking down at the chair leg, he saw the relative point it came to, and looked back to his opponent. A frontal assault was a stupid idea, in general. However, a stupid idea applied smartly or as a last resort... It could be the best choice. Cyril didn't have a lot of fine control over his body any more. He still had certain advantages, though. Strength, size, and a mission. His opponent had a mission, but it was a destructive one. He had none of the strongest motivations a person could have. Cyril had a mission to save...

"Let's just figure who's going to survive this..."

Leaning down and forward, Cyril would start running at his opponent, his eyes focused intently on his opponent. He was going to endure a blow. There was no real question about that. And it was going to hurt. Cyril's left arm was held in a spot to block his head, neck and heart, but he couldn't protect his side, and his arm wasn't really a shield. If he got inside his opponent's reach, though, and succeeded in tackling him to the ground... With his right arm, he could slam the point of the chair leg against his opponent's chest as hard and as often as possible, fully intending to kill his foe...

"Now you complain?" absconded 'Mairse.'

He even laughed. For the duration of Cyril's life, he had been given terrible situation, and he complained almost immediately afterward. Of course, a man should have that right given his condition, but to live his entire life like that . . . 'Mairse' receiving an example of this simply caused him to laugh a bit.

"Not that I should be surprised," he continued as he braced himself, sliding his left foot back, "You've whined every damn step of this fight."

Cyril was approaching, and leaving him with very little options. He had about one hit left with his weapon, and by the way Cyril was charging, it was unlikely that he'd manage another blow against Cyril's face. He'd have to make the last shot with this weapon count.

So, he decided to not use it this time. Rather, he acted as Cyril definitely would not have expected. Obviously, Cyril was much larger, so there wasn't much that 'Mairse' could do to stop him. Literally, it was like trying to stop a train. Granted, he was pretty well off for that process, but stopping Cyril required him to hurt himself in the process. Of course, this would also leave him the chance to get his last good hit in with the pipe.

'Mairse's enemy charged--straight forward, straight into 'Mairse's leg, lifted into a kick just when he was in range of hitting Cyril in the diaphragm. The result would crack his leg, but also practically implant his boot into Cyril's diaphragm and stomach. Even if Mairse was thrown to the floor with a great deal of velocity and forced to walk with a bum left leg for the entire duration of the fight, Cyril would be just as bad. Instead of having a bad leg, he'd possibly be winded for a good period of times. Dozens of minutes, possibly even up to an hour . . .

Cyril could watch "Mairse" raise his leg up for a strike, but there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn't stop himself any better than Mairse could. It was going to hurt, without a doubt, but it wasn't going to kill him. Probably. At least no one would ever really know if he failed like this...

"UNH!"

Cyril would take the blow in the most direct of ways, impacting the foot straight on. His stomach wasn't really soft, so it wasn't going to be pleasant for Mairse, but it was worse for himself, definitely. Following Mairse, whether he was knocked backward or fell to the ground, he would struggle for air, his lungs dutifully trying to keep his body supplied with oxygen. Even if he couldn't breathe, though, he could keep moving. The pain brought tears to his eyes and nearly made him vomit, but he hadn't eaten before arriving, anyway. His muscles quickly began to burn from the lack of air, but he would continue at his opponent with the chair leg, stabbing at his opponent's chest with full intention of breaking ribs or doing even worse... A constant fit of coughing would bring tears to his eyes, though, and obscure his vision. He couldn't see much of what was coming...

Floored and shaken by the impact, Mairse hit back first, followed immediately by the back of his skull. Thinking about the pain in his leg couldn't be justified after that point. The shock from the blow even knocked the lead pipe out of his hand, but not far enough that it couldn't still be a threat. Really, it was only a foot and a half to his right.

And Cyril would be on top of him, kept up by Mairse's leg between them, balancing Cyril uncomfortably over him, while Cyril himself continued to try and lodge the piece of wood in Mairse's chest. Cyril's wrist was caught, just in time, which left Mairse struggling to keep Cyril from succeeding. His leg hurt like crazy, but there wasn't much he could do. In Cyril's state, if Mairse didn't practically have his knee up against his chest and foot (painfully, for both men) in Cyril's diaphragm, then Cyril would have just fallen onto him. With Cyril's fighting hand caught by Mairse's left, this allowed Mairse to lift his right hand, balled into a fist--

"Don't . . . you . . . fucking . . . learn?!"

One--two--three--four--four blows total, each semi-weak punches to the face, but punches nonetheless. Comparatively, they were going to hurt far less than the rest of his body, now that he was cut off from breathing for the time being. That would come back, but not before Cyril was rolled off of Mairse, pushed off to the left, allowing Mairse the opportunity to slowly pull himself up and retrieve his weapon. Neither of the two men were going to be moving around all that fast anymore, reducing their individual speed and maneuverability to next to nothing, but at the same time, it'd be physically impossible for either of them to tackle one another anymore.

The punches to his face were hardly a concern. Pain wasn't really a factor any more, just a simple fact. He wasn't sure if he was going to die, but until it happened, he would keep moving with whatever energy was in his body. Unfortunately for Mairse, too, he couldn't hold both of Cyril's hands while striking. Cyril would punch at his opponent's head with his free hand as well, before being pushed away, hardly able to resist the motion.

"Learn... Hnh..."

Cyril couldn't even speak without grasping for air any more. It was all too possible he'd never regain his breath. However, after rolling onto his back, he would slowly push himself up, wincing at the effort and at the burning sensations running through his muscles. Leaning to his left side, though, he would fall back for a moment, coughing up a spot of blood. The kick hadn't demolished his organs because it had broken several of his ribs instead, just below his heart...

"If I... Unh, Unh, UNH! Haven't learned yet... UH! What makes you think I'd learn now?"

Cyril smiled a bit, his teeth stained partially with his own blood and his breath passing haltingly over his lips. Despite the pain and the situation, the comment made him happy. He learned. It was one of the few things he tried to do. It didn't mean he had to change his tactics, though. Now that Mairse was unable to move quickly... Cyril had no reason to try to bring him to the ground. He'd be better served by remaining standing. Leaning specifically to his right and pushing himself up with a large effort, he would slowly begin to move forward, the chair leg in hand. Luckily, all this thinking appeared to have neutralized his opponent's, for the most part. All they had left were their bodies, and his was on loan anyway...

If only because of the previous hit of the back of his skull against the marble floor, a punch to the face wasn't too much to feel for Mairse--just like the four punches weren't much for Cyril, considering the damage he took. Once Mairse was up, there was no bringing him back down; to do so would have actually been the end of the battle for Cyril. It was in his best interest to avoid such a thing.

Mairse was quite injured, himself; he had a bloody lip, the back of his head was bleeding, his back hurt like hell, and his left leg was willingly stiff. He could still make quick dashes, but running was impossible. Still, he wasn't nearly as hurt as Cyril--though, that may very well have been his own fault. Mairse had the upper hand when it came to his own weaknesses; whereas Cyril could do momentously more damage by bringing him to the floor, but Mairse could do twice that, or more, when he counter attacked.

"Hah, right, right," Mairse cocked his head from side to side, cracking his neck again, just as he had done awhile back, "You're so stubborn, you refuse to die even when your body wants to. Let's fix that . . ."

The lead pipe was held out, but not in a threatening manner--it was a prepared method. Mairse was taking a defensive strategy, and holding out the poorly balanced weapon before him with both hands. It had only one hit left before it broke and became completely useless, and he was going to make damn sure that it counted. Cyril would then be able to expect Mairse's "fencing" to come into play. The stance was a two-handed saber style, if he knew anything about the art. Mairse wasn't the best anymore, but it was more than enough to have a huge tactical advantage over his enemy, at least for a short period of time. Tactics were guaranteed to change dramatically during the course of this fight. Mairse was holding the thing like a sword, and for better or for worse, he was going to treat it like one for the time being. Given a hard enough swing, weight and balance didn't matter . . .

"My body... My body gave up already... It can't convince me I'm going to die... And I trust it more than I trust you..."

Cyril had thankfully stopped coughing, which prevented his broken ribs from doing further damage, but his voice was weak and barely audible as he tried to get wind to his half-useless lungs. The bastard... Even after Cyril had fought his way to this point while he ordered others around, he was going to make Cyril continue to take the initiative. It made a certain amount of sense... Cyril had to win here. A pyrrhic victory was pointless. He had to talk to Edii again, just to be sure, and then he could die. And his opponent was older than the universe itself. Cyril's lifetime wasn't even a consideration. His opponent could just wait until Cyril died of old age if he wanted to.

"You know... Tell me something. Why do you care what we do? Let us destroy ourselves. Go make a new universe of little pretend dolls and trees made of sunshine and whatever you want. You don't need us. And we don't want you... At least, I don't want you..."

Cyril tried one last appeal to reason with his opponent. If not... Well, the fight had to end one way or another. Cyril would slowly approach his opponent, coming to a point just outside the man's reach. It wasn't like either of them could do a swift attack...

"Believe me . . ." Mairse began.

He relaxed, but only by a little. This was but another moment where he had something to say; Cyril had prompted it, but rather than a retort to reasoning, it was actually a revelation--something Cyril had not been aware of all along, something that established this man as an enemy impossible to be reasoned with. Not because he was not a reasonable man; he may have actually been such, but circumstances did not allow for that.

"I would have done that long ago, if I could. I don't have the power to do it. I'm no more able to build a world than you are. But to be honest with you--I never was. The only thing I had was circumstance. I was in the right place at the right time. That was all." his voice fell a bit--from confident to disappointed, "You see, in the beginning there was nothing but blank space. Nothing more. Just a pseudo-infinite plane of nothing. Consciousness could be born there, but it would always die--drowned out by the sea of non-existence. But there was only one of those."

"I didn't create that. That can't be remade. I'm not some all powerful being. I never was. I never will be. All I have are resources, and I used those as best as I could. Even back then, all I had to do was have the want. It was like filling an empty cup with water. Anyone can do it. The only way for me to rebuild--to reshape this world into my Utopia--is to reduce this world to nothing once again."

It wasn't that he was a weakened spirit of a once powerful being. He was never powerful. That was exactly it. He was a being of circumstance, and that very situation did not allow for anything less than the destruction of this world. As long as he existed . . .

"So that's it... You selfish bastard..."

His opponent was really just a man... Perhaps a man that lived forever, just a man. That was why Cyril had a chance against him. He didn't have the benefit of all that experience, but Cyril had succeeded through luck and skill. To this point, anyway. Now... Things were tough. He was so close to defeating his opponent, compared to what he'd gone through all this way. And all so he could kill the oldest being in existence, who had the mentality of a five year old child who hadn't had his way...

"You know... How do you know you'll survive this? Maybe I could survive the end of the universe, too. Maybe I'd be the one to rebuild it. You don't know... You didn't make the rules... You just try to tilt them in your favor. Why can't you just live a life here, in what your creation has become, and wonder where it was all inspired from?"

Cyril spoke slowly, keeping his breathing constant to avoid aggravating his chest, and in truth, his mind did wander for a moment. What if he had Mairse's position? What if he could make the next world? Could he ignore the temptation to make a perfect world? And if it went wrong, would he be able to stop himself from trying to destroy it? He could try to replicate this one, perhaps... Make new versions of everyone he knew, and remove the problems in their lives... But... Would that be right?

Cyril changed his stance somewhat, the chair leg held across his body to defend himself from the imminent blow with the pipe. It was... Almost hard to hate his opponent at this point. No, in truth... He didn't hate him. He wouldn't have wanted the responsibility, and it was almost understandable what Mairse wanted to do. Cyril knew, though, that he couldn't let it happen. At least, not without sacrificing everything to try to stop it...

"You had your chance... You made a world that's different from what you expected, but it's better than what you wanted. It has other people, with free will. And it doesn't belong to you any more. You don't have the right to destroy it..."

Cyril would walk forward, unable to manage a run any more. It would take a while for him to get within reach of Mairse, and he had another thought... Just a short time ago, he was willing to give up everything in Utopia for the sake of a life in Oblivion. A happy mirror of the life he'd lost. And yet... Here he was. Battered, broken, and with the weight of the universe on his shoulders. A new universe wouldn't work out for Mairse any more than his own new life would have worked for himself...