NOTE: This was a short story that I wrote as a "Descriptive Essay" for my schoolwork. Several adults I know enjoyed it, but I'm not entirely certain that they aren't just saying that they like it to make me feel good. So I am submitting it to a bunch of strangers (you), for honest feedback. Thank you.
The two blades came together with a clang that echoed throughout the valley. The adversaries were both expert swordswomen, and each prepared herself for the long, all-too-familiar dance that was to come; the dance of dodging the sharp blade of her familiar foe, and then attacking with a series of slashes and stabs.
As soon as the blades came together, they flew apart again. Again and again the blades crashed together and flew apart.
The battle raged on for several minutes, without even a hint of who would come out victorious. No matter how fierce they fought, or how skillful either was, their blades hit nothing but the other’s steel.
Each woman now attacked more powerfully than ever before; channeling ever ounce of strength she could muster into her aching arms. Each blow was harder than the last; each warrior even more covered in sweat.
Rosaline’s arms and shoulders glistened nearly as much as her breastplate did. Her armor, though it was the lightest in the land, still grew heavy on her sore body. When she noticed her breathing was getting labored, she knew she must end the battle, or risk a loss. She prepared to deliver her most ferocious blow yet.
Unfortunately her opponent saw the change in her stance, and altered her own strategy. She decided to switch to the offense, which should force Rosaline to the defense. She prepared to deliver her most powerful blow yet.
Rosaline saw that her former friend, Astana, intended to take the offense, but Rosaline wouldn’t permit that. The blades came together with incredible force, and shattered on contact. Instead of pulling their blades back, each stared dumbly at her throbbing hands and the hilt she held.
The blades had been forged by Elven experts, in the depths of Mt. Tudor, the hottest volcano in the world. They were forged from the strongest steel, and folded hundreds of times. Never before had Elven blades been broken, and it took both women by surprise.
Rosaline thought back to her childhood days, when she and Astana had sparred with wooden swords. Even when they were but children, they had possessed the strength to shatter blades used by the human men.
How had she dealt with it when she stood with only a wooden stub in her hands? She tried to recall.
Back then, they had been sparring for fun, and never dreamt it would come to this; to the two of them on the opposite sides of the war. To one of them laying down her life by the other’s hands.
Rosaline threw down her hilt, and leapt onto Astana. They went down in a fury of fists. They were as trained in hand-to-hand combat as they were in swordsmanship, so in just seconds, the first blood appeared.
They fought for several long minutes, each punching the other, and clawing the armor loose. By the time a quarter of an hour had passed, each woman was covered in blood, stripped of her armor, and utterly exhausted.
Rosaline finally snapped Astana’s neck, and slowly stood with tears in her eyes.
“My old friend,” Rosaline whispered.
The wind blew Rosaline’s blood and dirt streaked hair out of her battered face. Astana wasn’t the only one who had taken damage in the fight.
The wind stilled, and the valley was filled with an eerie silence. A twig snapped, and a bow twanged. That was worse than the eerie silence.
Rosaline’s head snapped to her right, just in time to see an arrow heading for her. She didn’t have time to react, or even time enough to be frightened.
The arrow pierced her fair skin, right above her collar bone. She fell back onto Astana; she felt hot, sticky blood oozing out of the wound, around the arrow, and dripping down the side of her neck. Her eyes took in The Great Blue Sky, the sun blinding her as it warmed her face.
The war is finally over, Rosaline thought, as her vision faded away into utter darkness, and she lay dead.
Three long years of battle, finally ended. Without their Elven leaders, the human men would have no way to continue the war. The two Elven women who lay dead in the open field were who the men looked to for courage, training, and strategy.
Without them, there was no war. It was over at last.
