Two warriors, locked in seemingly endless combat, stood at the gates of the burning village; one fighting for his home and for his life and the other fighting simply for the thrill of drawing blood.
He that lusted for blood was not unlike the dark master to whom he was indentured; for he had been exiled from the same village he was sieging and had betrayed it by joining its enemies army; he hated the village and all that it stood for and it was this hatred which drove his knife into his enemy's flesh.
The defender sank back in the agony which would be his death; but strangely he did nothing and he prepared to welcome his death.
The attacker prepared to move on and would have, if he had not been caught in the dying defender's gaze, he stopped, for in it he saw the queer thing of absolution.
Perhaps it was dying for his people, and honorable death that caused it, but the defender did not consciously grant that forgiveness to his murderer and he lay trying to erase his mind and welcome his death not seeing what was before him.
The attacker could only imagine what was occurring in the foe's last seconds of life, and he crouched down and took up the dying warrior in his arms. He removed his headband, clutched it tightly and then threw it off, emotion came to him for the first time since the exile, for he knew what he had done and in what seemed like the first time in his life, tears came to his eyes.
The defender used his last breathe to recognize what his enemy had, he quietly declared: "My brother..."
