The Moment

Wounded but not yet dead, the rider struggled against the pain coursing through his body, as he rose unsteadily to his feet. Reaching for his sword while fighting back the tears welling up in his eyes, he stared intently at his assailant.

As his sword scraped from its sheath, his eyes locked with those of his enemy, and for an instant, recognition and understanding passed between them. The would be assassin moved to his feet, and in one smooth motion drew his sword.

And so it was. The real battle was joined, each combatant trapped hopelessly by the moment, one to live and one to die.

The warriors launched into the calculated movements of two animals on the hunt, each circling the other, their swords gleaming in the moonlight, searching for the weakness of their opponent, waiting for the moment to turn. Seemingly without warning the pace changed, the swords flashed, and the men leapt across the imaginary circle separating them. The sounds of their swords colliding reverberated through the night air, and tiny sparks exploded with each successive blow. On and on they moved, back and forth through the glade, parry and thrust, two figures dancing by the light of the moon.

Cold sweat glistened on the rider's face and his hand had become cramped on the hilt of his sword. Each swing of his arm caused the assassin's bolt to shift, expanding the already gaping wound on his shoulder. Through exhaustion and the excruciating pain the rider tried to keep pace with his enemy but the force of each blow simply drew away what little energy remained. In desperation the rider searched his opponent for some unseen advantage. Finding none, he resigned himself to his fate. He would die.

A sudden calm swept over the rider, as if the very idea that his dying would be an acceptable price to pay for his failure. With the resolve of one committed to death, the rider let his pain consume him. No longer fighting the impending loss of consciousness, he abruptly collapsed to his knees, his sword slipping from his grasp.

With imploring eyes he searched the face of his executioner one last time, hoping to find some sign of reprieve. Sensing none, he closed his eyes and waited for death to take him.

The assassin's lips curled into a smile that failed to mask his contempt for the rider. The moment was his once again. With a sweeping arc, the man swung his blade at the rider's neck and with one graceful motion cleaved his victim's head from his shoulders.

It was almost over.

Oblivious to the sight of the headless body, the man bent down and began searching his victim. He found the envelope hidden in a concealed pocket at the small of the rider's back, and holding it up to the moonlight, he confirmed that it was what he had come for. The man tucked the envelope into his pack and searched the rest of the lifeless rider.

Discovering nothing more of interest, the man stood and let out an audible sigh.

It was over.

As he turned to walk back towards his original perch, his eyes were drawn to the sight of the gold medallion that still hung around the severed neck of the dead rider. The man grabbed the pendant, pausing just long enough to consider the folk tales told to scare little children about the magical powers imbued in the locket. Having never actually confirmed the truth of such cautionary tales, the man felt confident that the stories could be ignored. With one last look behind him, the assassin strode quietly off into the darkness, his new pendant hanging from his neck.