His limbs burned from maintaining the same position. He had no idea how long he had been seated there, in the middle of the clearing, but he had arrived in the early hours of the morning, before the world itself had awoken, before the sun had decided to begin its journey, and cast the moon from its perch. He had felt the moon and sun move, as the cool air left and heat and warmth intensified. The two orbs in the sky, tethered by some intangible force, pushing and pulling each other, attempting to move closer yet always opposite.

He had heard the calls and songs of birds, the chirping and creaking over various insects, some known to him, some not. And he had heard larger sounds. Lower growls, deadlier cries, noises on the edges of the clearing and deeper in the woods that hinted at creatures man should fear, noises to remind him that he was not always at the top of the food chain.

Yet the man had never opened his eyes. He held them shut, ever since assuming his stance, and felt instead of saw the sun arc its way across the sky on the eternal solar voyage. Had felt the lunar light shine upon the clearing as the great white orb returned to greet him, finding him in the same place it had left him.
He felt no need of food or water. His concentration was paramount, his meditation fine-tuned to a pinnacle. His mission was his only purpose, and so he sat, undeterred by animals, personal needs, or astral bodies, however each of them called. The only call he laid attention on was the one across his lap, a long wooden sheath, housing a sharpened katana blade. A slender piece of steel, folded a thousand times and more, a tool used to serve his… No, it was not a tool, it was an extension of him, a part of him that was alive as he. Even now he could feel it humming within the sheath of wood, waiting as he did, burning as he did. He accepted the burning, knowing it would keep him warm through the night if need be.

But it would not come to that. He heard shuffling in the brush behind him, heard the steps falling, graceful through practice and skill, but not as agile and measured as an animals. These were the treads of a human, and only one human was to cross through this clearing this night.

The man did not have to look to imagine his foe. He envisioned a man, old, but not enough to hinder himself. A man who would be confounded to find a sole figure sitting in the center of this glade, almost as still as a statue. The confusion would be intense. The thought almost made the man smile. Almost. But that would break concentration, so he did not.

Slowly, the warrior arose, and turned gently, allowing his body to adjust to movement again. He could feel the blood rush into his veins again, feel his limbs come to life again, ready to act at a moment’s notice.

The figure across the clearing was an odd sight. His features were obscured by a mask, only his eyes visible through a slit in the fabric. The man’s dress was mainly white, with no adorning symbols or icons to identify him.

The warrior’s garb was similar. Black, but with no marks to compromise his identity. He looked through his mask at this figure, this target. He held his blade loosely in his grip, keeping its impatience at bay as he awaited the figures response.
To the man’s credit, he showed no visible signs of panic. He simply spread his legs into a smoother stance, and drew his own blade, a smaller, more accented sword, similar in design to the warrior’s.

The warrior’s heart thrummed with contentment. He feared a lowly assassination, yet it would appear his mettle would be tested in combat.

No word was exchanged, no gesture made. The two figures stood, confronting each other, then, as one, drew their blades, set their scabbards aside and locked eyes with each other. The world around had grown silent, as if the forest itself was waiting with baited breath. The sun was straining to watch as it sunk below the horizon, dismayed to leave before such an event, The moon rose with interest, keen in viewing the spectacle appearing as it began its lunar trek.

The warrior drew his blade up, arcing over his head in a slow curve. As he did, he dragged his index and middle fingers along the edge, feeling the sharp steel slice his skin open. As he reached the tip of the blade, he flicked his hand forward, spraying the blood that had been collecting on his fingers onto the sandy ground. The message was clear. Blood would be spilt on this ground.

His opponent was not quite as dramatic. He simply held his blade forward in front, both hands, and swept it up in front of his chest, angling his body sideways. He held there, a ready position, waiting for the first move.

The wind whispered through the clearing, moving the air, and setting the two tunics rustling in the breeze. The two figures didn’t stir. They were locked in concentration, each focusing his mind, two player before a match, two warriors before a duel, two orbs facing each other across the sandy sky between them.
It is said that the one one makes the first move ultimately wins the battle. And so the warrior began the dance. No battlecry, no shout, only a short and forced exhale as he lunged forward, bringing the sword around in a circle from below. His opponent moved to counter.

The sun and moon watched the two. There was no music, no instruments, no song, yet the two moved to the same rhythm. Only the sound of steel scraping on steel was heard. The clash of blade on blade echoed through the glade, stopping against the barrier of bark ringing the edges, never making it past. The two figures danced through the twilight sky, as the sun mournfully set, disappointed to never see the end. And the moon rose above to a higher vantage, viewing the two with a calculating, but non judgemental eye.

Soon, a change in the dance was felt. The warrior felt his opponent falter, a minor detail, one that would normally never have been noticed. But the warrior was keen. With a tremendous effort of will, he forced his fatigue to a distant world, and exploited this tiny advantage. He rallied himself against his foe, and could tangibly feel his opponent buckle against the onslaught. Abruptly, the dance ended. Not the scrape of two metals, but a soft whisper echoing throughout the clearing. The trees seemed to shudder in the wind, almost appearing pleased by the whole display. The moon watched tactfully, a critic of the performance set for it.

As the warrior held his opponent’s body on his blade, he gazed into the eyes of his counterpart. He looked into his eyes, and saw no anger, no sadness. Only acceptance, and acceptance that a better foe had been found, and a stronger man walked the earth than himself. With that, the white figure closed his eyes slowly, and almost blissfully slid off the blade.
The warrior did not dry his sword on his opponent’s clothing. That would be disrespectful of such a worthy foe. Rather, he procured a small cloth from the folds of his tunic, and efficiently wiped his blade down, quickly, before returning it to the sheath. The blade did not protest; it was sated, and would bother no one for many days.

The warrior did likewise to his opponent’s blade, slowly looking over the rival of his own sword, and approved of its make. It was familiar, and strangely, the design comforted him. As he made to leave, allowing nature to do what it would with the shrouded form, the warrior was overtaken by a sudden urge to know his opponent. Such a man would surely be worth remembering. And so he turned back, and lifted the veil over the man’s mask, to gaze on the face of his own brother.

The stoic warrior felt an emotion rise then, the first in many months. He felt sorrow, and mourning, and kneeled there, transfixed by this face. The trees shivered with the cold chill creeping up their wooden spines, and the moon no longer looked down with a cool impassive face. Rather, it seemed to look down in mocking, the only one amused at its own mirth, at a very cruel cosmic joke.