[ WP ] `` I do n't owe you a fair fight ''

I drum my fingers on the smooth surface of my writing table. I do not know why I'm still sitting here. 
 
 *Crack*. 
 
 A sizable boulder thrown by one of their accursed catapults rips apart the stone wall nearby. It's a wonder that the tower I sit in has n't fallen. If only it would. I look up, hoping to see wobbling walls above me, hoping to be crushed and erased from this plane. It is miraculously still. 
 
 Treaties and ceasefires, all written in hasty scribbles, fly around and away and out the gaping hole. I can feel the cold air flowing in from outside. I choose to ignore the shouts of pain and clash of steel as my pitiful `` army'' is overpowered. 
 
 I can see him, leading the charge, more courageous than any man living. Fuck his courage. 
 
 I stand up and begin the short walk to the courtyard, where he and his band of conquerors are soon to be. He may win this fight, but he will find no joy in it, that bloodthirsty bastard. 
 
 Along the way, I stop by my bedchambers and slip something on the side of my armor. The lavish interior mocks me as I turn away. I am no king. I never deserved this life of luxury and politics and war, and never did I desire it. 
 
 My hands are shaking as I stop in the middle of the courtyard, feeling the ground beneath me quake even though it is completely still. His eyes catch mine as he cuts down another one of my men, and a devilish smile arcs across his face. As soon as the last soldier I have falls to the ground, cleaved almost in two by a lucky greatsword swing, the leader of vandals is running to me, his posse not far behind. 
 
 `` Where was the challenge?'' He breaths heavily as he reaches earshot. I say nothing. That fiendish grin quickly turns to a scowl. 
 
 `` Finish the rest,'' he barks, shooing away his comrades with his sword in hand. They leave, and all that is left is a king and an usurper. 
 
 We are standing no more than three feet from each other now. I can smell the stench of blood and hatred in the boiled leather he wears, and I can see the gash lining his leg that exposes veins and muscle and bone. He does not feel it yet. The ecstasy and fear of battle is still coursing strong through his blood, and he has no idea that his leg is untreatable, that this battle will be his last on the front lines. 
 
 `` Old man, let's decide this the old-fashioned way.'' His teeth are yellowed and rotting, unfitting of a face otherwise so handsome. `` We duel.'' 
 
 I give him the coldest stare, and for a moment, he almost seems to shrink underneath it. The next, his chest is puffed out, his sword held loftily in one hand, his face fearless. 
 
 He points at my side. `` Unsheath your sword! It is the least you can do, even as the lowest scum of the earth! One last duel!'' Spittle flies as he yells, his face a mixture of fury and war-joy. 
 
 `` I do n't owe you a fair fight,'' I say. The words shock him, and he looks around for bowmen, cavalry, anything I may have up my sleeve. I can not help but let an amused chuckle rumble from deep in my throat. 
 
 I pull the knife from my side. It is adorned with gleaming gems, an heirloom passed down from generation to generation. He raises a sword as if to parry. 
 
 I slit my own throat in a flash and feel the warm blood run down my neck. 
 
 This beast will not claim my life. It is one small revenge; the only revenge available to me. The usurper will conquer this kingdom without a speck of honor. 
 
 The last I see of him as I fall to the ground is a face twisted in a grotesque caricature of demonic anger. He is screaming, but I do not hear the words. I will die with a smile on my face.
