Introduction: This is an experiment carried out firstly because I want to keep writing, and secondly because it's difficult for me: I'm not good at this sort of short story, which is all the more reason to try to become better. To this end, I would be most pleased if you could review, and point out what I could have done better.

This is a short story about Eltosian and Sigurd, their sons Aless and Celice, and the Demon Sword Mistoltin, heirloom of Eltosian's family.


The Father…

From a distance, a watcher might have found the scene fascinating, like a child that watches ants mill about a miniature landscape; toiling for no evident purpose, their aims and intentions inscrutable to a greater mind. There was a cadence to the sight, a fickle pulse inherent in the motions of tiny men on tiny horses. Silence marked the meeting of the riders, and no sound reached the distant perch when flesh and steel collided. From a distance, there was neither sound nor understanding for a fallen knight. The sun bore down, washing over the plains surrounding Silvail Castle, and light reflected from myriad metal surfaces, causing the landscape to sparkle and glitter. Too distant to see blood, sweat, and tears, the scene was beautiful.

It was fascinating.

-Eltosian-

Battle was pandemonium. The din of horses' hooves, the clamor of knights' voices, the sound of swords and lances clashing; the War God's call. The brutal sun smote Eltosian's armor and stole the breath from his lungs. His skin crawled, covered with sweat against the leather, beneath the metal. The Cross Knights thundered across the plains, and horses whinnied and shrieked with fear as weapons bit into their flesh. Battle-cries marked the beginnings, and death screams the ends. Battle was thoughtless chaos; a dance without reflection.

Mistoltin was pleased. The sentient blade sent shivers of pleasure through his sword arm as his fingers gripped the hilt with the full extent of his strength. His knuckles should be white, but the sword called for blood from all sources, and his hand pulsated furiously; a measure of Mistoltin's desire. His heart pounded, and he saw the world through a haze of bloodlust. The scene before him was all too clear.

"Eltosian!" a voice shouted.

His mind focused as a knight clad in blue broke through the ranks and charged towards him. It was Sigurd.

One of his knights—the name was lost to the haze—met the lord, and Sigurd flicked his sword past the man's defenses. With a swift stab, the blade swept past the golden shield and bit through armor, into flesh. The Cross Knight screamed, and threw up his sword. In one last act of defiance, he swept the blade at Sigurd, but the lord was already past him. The Cross Knight sagged against his mount, and blood leaked from armor plates. The color of red stained gold, and he fell from the saddle. The horse reared up, and Eltosian lost sight of the man. Anger welled into his mind, but it felt superficial; not quite his own. His sword wanted Sigurd's head.

Sigurd called his name, but he did not respond. He spurred his mount forward, and charged. Mistoltin raised his arm, and he held the sword aloft. His vision narrowed, and for a moment he saw only Sigurd. Their horses met.

Their swords met. Mistoltin's malicious jade slammed against Sigurd's silvery blade, and sparks flew as the weapons collided once, and again. They matched their strength, and the blades slid against each other to meet at the cross-guards. Eltosian grit his teeth, and frowned.

"Eltosian!" Sigurd yelled. The voice was jarring.

Eltosian tensed his arm and pushed with all his might. Their horses pranced about each other, vying for a better position as their masters locked swords. With a final push, Eltosian drew back his sword and thrust.

Sigurd was prepared. His sword cut through the air and dropped, pushing Mistoltin down. His attack failed, and he heaved his sword back up to prepare for a counter-attack.

The attack never came.

Eltosian hesitated, and circled his horse around to flank the blue knight.

Sigurd snarled. "Cease this! Listen to me!" His eyes were visible beneath his helm, and they had filled with determination, but also something more. Something deeper.

Eltosian's breathing was bestial, and his mind struggled to contain his anger; Mistoltin's fury. "Silence," he growled. "We are knights, Sigurd; you and I both. You come here as an invader…" He moved his mount in a brisk turn and charged. "And I stand here as a defender!"

Sparks of jade and silver erupted between their blades. The force of the blow drove Sigurd back in his saddle, and he turned his mount around, pushing back. His face paled as he saw the crack on his silver sword.

"Augustria could hope for no better man to defend her, Eltosian!" he shouted. His words were spoken with aggression, but his face could not conceal his sincerity.

((Always so sincere, Sigurd…)) The thought originated in Eltosian's mind. It was his own, and not of the sword. He felt remorse as his blade moved. Sigurd's eyes shot open, and he ducked as Mistoltin swept down on him. The blade brushed and chipped his shoulder pad, but left him unscathed.

Sigurd backed off and rearranged his sword and shield. "You are wrong, Eltosian! I am not here as an invader, so call off your knights and spare our lives! I came to rescue you."

The words roused a portion of Eltosian's mind, and he swept his gaze across the battlefield. The two of them were stranded away from the heart of the battle, and they were alone. Occupied with the grim reality of the skirmish, their knights would not come to their aid. ((Perfect,)) Eltosian thought. "Rescue me? Do I look like I need rescuing from my own people?" He held his mount still, and did not push the attack. Sigurd breathed heavily, and a look of doubt had crept into his eyes. Eltosian felt a moment's elation—a thing of blood lust—before he realized that he was no less tired. ((Our swordsmanship seems evenly matched…but in Barhara, at the academy, I was the better swordsman, and I have Mistoltin. The victor on this day…is me,)) he assured himself.

"Do not twist my words, Eltosian!" Sigurd breathed through his mouth, and his shoulders rose and fell in tune. "Yes, we are knights, but we are also—"

((Enough!)) Eltosian charged. He flicked his sword back, and hid it behind his back as he raised his shield in front. Sigurd closed his mouth and scowled. Uncertainty was evident in his features as he spurred his mount into motion. Their horses' heads aligned, and Eltosian shifted his grip on Mistoltin. In a moment, he swept the sword around.

Another clash, another crack, and Mistoltin sang with joy.

Eltosian's cheek flushed with pain as Sigurd's shield slammed into the side of his face. His vision swam, and he gasped in fear as he prepared for an attack he would not be able to predict. He moved sword and shield blindly, struggling to regain his balance.

No attack came.

"Damn it, Eltosian, listen to me! You say we are knights, and you are right, but we are also friends. We are brothers, you stupid son of a bitch!"

The irony of the insult was too much for Eltosian. Even as he fought to still his vision, he laughed. The clash of emotions stirred something within his heart, and he found tears gathering in his eyes. Without a word, he raised his hand and slammed the visor of his helm down. He watched Sigurd through the slit.

"Do not hide from me, Eltosian!" Sigurd shouted.

"Enough, Sigurd." Once the ringing in his ears died down, his mind had returned to him. The sword seemed to vibrate with anger, but his thoughts pushed the bloodlust aside, and set him free. "A knight's honor is his oath. Even though…" He choked on the words, and left them unspoken. "I will not die an oath-breaker. Let us behave ourselves as knights, and fight without guilt or remorse!"

He did not make the first move. Somehow, he wanted this moment to drag out, to last. ((No guilt? No remorse?)) He chuckled to himself. ((For you at least, Sigurd, no guilt, no remorse. That is beyond me…)) Mistoltin throbbed with eagerness. The Demon Sword knew not honor, but it thrived on it all the same.

"Eltosian…" Sigurd closed his eyes for a moment, and swallowed. He shifted his sword to his shield arm and held out his empty hand. "I understand. A knight's honor…" He drew a deep breath, and opened his eyes. "If one of us…" His voice broke. "If one of us must die here today, I cannot decide whom. Let our swords decide! No guilt, my beloved friend."

Sigurd's eyes were filled with pity. He saw right through him.

Eltosian fought back the tears. (('Even though I love you,' my dear friend. You are not the only one I have scorned for my honor, Sigurd; not the only one I have pushed aside to preserve my dignity.)) With a shout, he hid his emotions, and charged.

Time lost its meaning, and the sun halted in its path. Its light reflected off of Eltosian's raised shield as his mount's furious motion made a blur of the world. He heard the sound of hooves, but thought nothing of it. Sigurd grew in his field of vision, and he blinked away unshed tears. ((Farewell…)) Mistoltin's desire was a shriek running through his blood, jolting his veins.

Silence made everything faint. His horse leapt, and he raised his sword. He aimed for the air, and swung to miss. Precision gave collision, and with that; tremors of the body, and of the arm.

Their swords collided, and Eltosian felt Mistoltin tear through the silver blade's tang and crush it. The shock was stunning, and he turned his mouth as he touched down.

Neither of them had aimed true. ((We are such pathetic liars!)) He could fight the tears no more, and wept. Sigurd's eyes were brimming with tears, but he said nothing.

"Liar!" Eltosian screamed. It was irrational, but necessary. His heart ached. "Vainglorious bastard! Let me die!" He was frantic, and filled with aimless anger. This madness was his, and not Mistoltin's.

Sigurd remained silent.

Eltosian's mind flooded with thoughts of his wife, and of his son, and he was overcome with guilt. His tears fell as he screamed, and he swung his sword in desperation.

"Master Sigurd!" someone shouted.

A great force slammed into Eltosian's shoulder pad. He was knocked aside as the javelin veered from his armor, and his sword swept through air, cooling Sigurd's face.

"Finn, no! Stand down!" Sigurd shouted.

Eltosian raised his sword and turned, feeling disoriented. Sigurd was close, now, and he no doubt knew that he was crying. Two horses approached.

"Brother! Brother!" Lachesis' voice carried from behind him.

Eltosian turned to see his sister ride at the side of a blue-haired knight armed with a lance. He felt a wordless fury rise. "Stay away from this place, Lachesis! Do not come close!"

"Shut up, you fool!" she shrieked. Her voice was scattered, and the words were wrought around tears. She was weeping, and the sight of her anxious face cut through all of Eltosian's defenses. The knight at her side was watching her with worry, even as he cleared a path for her. Eltosian felt a deep sting of jealousy.

"Lachesis, leave at once," he commanded. "We are knights, and this is our destiny as knights!"

Lachesis reined her horse in at his side, and scowled. Finn held his lance with hesitation, protective enough to stand at her side, but frightened enough to keep his distance. Eltosian now saw that he was little more than a child, not long removed from a squire's duties.

"Knights! I too am a knight, brother! You and Master Sigurd have taught me a knight's honor, and it is not this nonsense about destiny or oaths! How could an honorable man or woman, knight or not—"

"Sister, be quiet."

"NO. You be quiet, you pompous fool! Knight or not, how could an honorable man betray a friend! Do not do this! Do not throw your life away for nothing!" Her words were at once coaxing and insulting, and her voice tried to hide her heart-wrenching worry.

((She at least will not know my tears.)) "If we lose our king, Augustria will be no more."

Lachesis raised her head with pride, and scowled; a menacing expression not entirely marred by her tears. "If the king would withdraw his army, Sigurd would not need to push on. Please, dear Elto, put your trust in your friend."

Eltosian knew not how to protect himself from her devotion. The world swirled, and he once more found himself fighting back the tears. He refused to let the child see him cry, or even his sister. He gathered his strength, and failed. He cracked.

"I will make one last attempt to speak with the king…" The smile that spread on his sister's face warmed his heart, but it could not rouse his spirit. ((It will be a knave's death, but at least I will die for a friend.))

"Sigurd…" He turned to regard his friend.

Sigurd glanced at Lachesis, and then to him. "Eltosian, be well." Although he did not say 'farewell,' it was implied. His friend seemed close to tears as well, and spoke slowly, deliberately. "For all those days and nights in Barhara…"

"Yes. Thank you, Sigurd. It was an honor. Give Cuan my regards."

"I… I will."

((You were my dearest friend, Sigurd.)) He turned his horse around and stared at his sister. Too relieved at the turn of events, she seemed oblivious to the truth. He forced a smile, but the visor made the gesture symbolic at best.

Mistoltin still throbbed with bloodlust when he raised it to call a retreat. When he looked around, he found no one but Sigurd's warriors alive on the field; a gallery of motionless soldiers, all watching him. Embarrassment could not compete with pain and guilt.

Lachesis smiled through wistful tears. He stared at her, and fought down the desire to touch her face one last time. He let his gaze linger, and then broke it. Castle Silvail was awash with burnished red colors under the setting sun. Its towers and walls seemed to be bleeding.

Mistoltin fumed as he sheathed it, and the hilt sent pulses of agonizing temptation through his arm as he slowly let go of it.

He had always known that she would be his undoing.

How ironic that his undoing nearly became hers.