I stood there speechless and I watched them fight. I had never seen such an apparently uneven match-up and I was both terrified and intrigued. There was nothing I could do to intervene so I accepted the role of the spectator. To my left stood a man dressed in rags. He was dirty and his hands were all battered, probably by long years of hard work. His hair was long and entangled. In his left hand he held an old rusty machete that seemed blunt and well past its usefulness. He seemed to place no value on his physical appearance or on how others perceived him. Perhaps he did not have the luxury of fine clothes or quality gear but that did not excuse his general appearance, I taught. There was however a strange glow in his eyes and his entire being seemed to burn with the rage of a thousand suns.
His opponent was the complete opposite. He was well groomed and he wore a complicated black armor the likes of which I had never seen before. His face and arms were covered in battle scars and tattoos the meaning of which I did not know. In his right hand he held a long curved sword. It was a soldier's weapon and although it had seen its share of combat it was well maintained. He was as cold and still as a mountain of ice. There was no expression on his face and his eyes were dark and empty. It was as if he was not actually there and his very soul was stripped away by the unrelenting carnage his eyes had witnessed and the pain and death his hands had surely delivered. Only an eternity of darkness could have forged a man into this pure embodiment of terror. As I looked upon him a sinister and cold fear overwhelmed me, as if I had seen the devil himself.
The fight seemed pointless. The ragged man stood no chance but his courage in the face of certain death was strangely inspiring. I found myself hoping for a miracle. It's funny how hope, no matter how dim, makes some things worthwhile. As disturbing as it may seem, If there was even a infinitely small chance that he would walk away from this fight, then that made witnessing his struggle a worthwhile experience. At least, that is how I justified my presence there.
The fight started quickly and unexpectedly. The ragged man launched himself at the dark warrior swinging his machete. Barely moving from his spot, the solider blocked the attack and countered with lightning fast punch to the chest. The ragged man fell to his knees gasping for air. Strangely, the solider did nothing. He just stood there looking at his opponent, fully realizing he could end this if he so pleased. It was his choice not to. Perhaps he somehow felt that this is not how the fight should end. I did not know if he was torturing that poor soul or if he was granting him the chance to die on his feet, instead of on his knees. This is where it all became very interesting. Was there honor and decency behind that empty cold gaze after all, or was this just a cruel form of amusement for the dark warrior? It was impossible to tell, as he revealed nothing. Perhaps it was just habit or a discipline of steel that drove him to give his opponent a warrior's death. But why? Why bother with the ragged man, who seemed so utterly insignificant? Why offer him a fighting chance when undoubtedly, others did not receive such consideration? Could that dark gaze pierce into the souls of the opponents and judge each one, passing verdict and sentence as some sort of sinister judge? All these questions rose in my mind while the ragged man lay on his knees.
There were only a few moments of stillness and silence. He got up slowly and tightened his grip on the rusty weapon. He was surprised that he was still alive and was no doubt wondering, as I did, why his opponent had spared him. He then understood that he had a long and agonizing fight ahead of him, and that he would not be killed before he gave all that he had. It was his final burden and he seemed ready to carry it with dignity. He would keep himself until the bitter end. The fight continued and the ragged man kept attacking and failing to strike his target. Each time he fell he was allowed to rise to his feet and each time he seemed to become faster and stronger. It was as if all his attempts and failures had made him tougher and more determined instead of weak and desperate. I had never seen such a thing. Instead of slowly extinguishing, the fire within became ever stronger, until I could see a raging inferno behind his eyes. I could tell that the dark warrior was pleased, even though he remained silent. The events seemed to be going according to his plans, and he showed no signs of distress or fear. I found myself wondering what the outcome of this sinister spectacle would be.
As the fight progressed, both combatants became wounded. The dark warrior was less affected, as his far superior skills served him well. Then, something unexpected happened. He kicked the ragged man to the ground and, in the seconds of pause, he removed his chest armor. As his opponent rose, the dark warrior threw his sword to the ground. "Pick it up" he said, in a commanding voice that echoed in my head like a dark incantation. Puzzled, the ragged man slowly moved towards the weapon and picked it up with his right hand. I did not understand what was happening, because now the warrior was unarmed and lacking his armor. Was this what he intended all along? Did he choose this fight to be his final one or was he so arrogant that even so, he believed he held the advantage?
The fight continued, and the ragged man attacked ferociously using both weapons. Even so, he did not manage to fatally wound the dark warrior, whose agility allowed him to evade almost all the blows and counter with punches and kicks. After a while, the ragged man became exhausted from swinging those heavy weapons in such a chaotic manor. He stopped attacking for a few moments to catch his breath and think. He was hurt and his strength was failing him. Only now did I understand that this was a battle of the fire more than it was one of steel and blood. It was his very soul that the dark warrior was after. He felt humiliation, fear and desperation slowly creeping their way into his mind, clouding his judgment. He did not understand why that happened and he looked with disgust at the weapons in his hands. He saw all the wounds and the blood and realized he was fighting a mortal man and knew that no man is invincible. Looking at the many scars that covered the warrior's limbs and face he understood that wounds alone would not win the fight. The dark warrior just stood there as silent and still as he was in the beginning. The pain didn't seem to bother him and blood was surely an all too familiar sight to his eyes.
The fight was now in its final stage. The ragged man dropped the heavy and ineffective machete and took a deep breath. His eyes were losing their glow and his pace was slow and unsure. He started swinging and shouting, taking longer and longer each time to recover and strike again. He finally stopped and fell to his knees, gasping for air. He had finally succumbed to his own weakness. The warrior looked at him for a while, waiting for him to get up. He didn't get up, and it was clear that the fight was over. The victor picked up the machete with his left hand and slowly moved behind the kneeling man. I expected the final strike to follow shortly, but it never did. The warrior smiled and spoke with a changed voice: "It was hope that betrayed you. You see, in the end it was not your body, soul or spirit that succumbed. It was your mind". After these words, he turned away and left, taking only the old machete as his prize and leaving his sword and armor behind. The ragged man remained there on his knees, with the words of the mysterious warrior echoing in his head.
I do not know what became of the ragged man or the warrior. However, I later heard of a strange person living in the wild and roaming the countryside, looking for something. No one knows who he is or where his purpose lies, but every time I hear tales of him I think of the fight I witnessed that day.
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