By the Sword

An age had come and gone; gone was the Middle Age and now - the dawn of the New Age. Gone were the petty wars fought over grain supply and the farmer’s daughter; now, deadly wars fought over reigning kingdoms and murdered monarchs have overtaken the minds of all. 

The birth of a new age is always painful. There are always those who protest its germination and its parturition. The process cannot be slowed and it cannot be stopped.

For the past decade, Markus hadn’t pondered Marcius’ fate. And yet, there he stood, glaring at Markus with his sabre in hand, prepared to cut him down as though he weren’t more than an expendable infantryman. Why Marcius glared at him so, Markus couldn’t answer. But he knew that the New Age for which Marcius fought was not admirable. This ‘progress’ for which his brother strived was an aspiration of death.

Markus examined his brother - he hadn’t aged well; age lines covered Marcius’ cheeks and forehead, and his eyes displayed a hardness that hadn’t been there the last time they’d met. Those stony eyes met Markus’ own eyes that were wisened by age but had none of the unfeeling. Markus didn’t recognize his brother. They had grown apart. So estranged had they become that in this civil war, they were on opposite sides. Markus fought to maintain some semblance of the sanctity of life, as Marcius so obviously opposed. 

The Middle Age soldier grasped his sword tightly as he fought to make sense of the dichotomy: Marcius, his brother, and Marcius, the foe. Neither was preferable, but as Markus glanced around the battlefield, seeing his countrymen slashed mercilessly across the abdomen or sliced down their face - preventing families from identifying their slaughtered kin - he settled upon the former. An appeal to memory.

“I ask again, do you surrender, or do you choose death?” Marcius questioned. There wasn’t any recollection of their shared history in Marcius’ eyes, and pain flickered in Markus’ being, as though he had already been cut down by the sword.

“Do you truly not remember?” Confusion crossed Marcius’ face. His guard appeared to drop, although he kept his sword drawn and its business end pointed in Markus’ direction. Markus pleaded, “You must remember.” He was getting desperate. This might be their last chance for reconciliation, let alone Markus’ only chance to escape a sure death at the hand of his own brother, estranged, though, they may be. “Brother,” he lowered his weapon, feigning an act of surrender. “Remember when you tried to teach me how to talk to women, talk to Bryn? I was completely at a loss,” Markus chuckled nervously, remembering his hopeless pining after Bryn, the daughter of the neighbouring collard farmer. 

Marcius fought to keep his composure; he didn’t want to admit it, but he faintly remembered a memory akin to the one this Middle Age man seemed to share. 

“You just have to walk up to the girl and say, ‘Milady,’” Marcius bowed low, his nose just brushing his knees. “‘My dear, my lovely. You are the rose of my eye and the apple of my heart.’” Markus watched puzzledly, quite sure that that wasn’t the saying, but resolved to listen to his big brother nonetheless. Surely he knew what he was doing. At this point in the performance, Marcius held a tree by its branch as though it were the hand of the fair Bryn. “‘My beauty, if only I could place a kiss upon your lips,’” he kissed the branch. “‘But the back of your hand will have to do.’” He finished his assault of the tree, which seemed to shudder in disgust at Marcius’ release of its branch. 

Markus was hesitant. ‘That’s all I have to do? You’re sure?”

"Yep. And look! What perfect timing.” Bryn was walking up the path between their farms, waving excitedly at the two brothers, one smirking cheekily and the other grinning sheepishly. With a shove and a, “Go on,” Markus went to the fence to meet Bryn. He looked back at Marcius unsurely, but the older just gave the younger two thumbs up in encouragement. 

Markus reached the fence just as Bryn did. He couldn’t stop staring at her face; her eyes were wide and bright, and her cheeks rounded and pink. “Mi-milady,” he stammered on his start but was determined to finish strong. He bowed lower than Marcius had and continued, “My dear, my lovely … ” Markus took Bryn’s hand in his. “… but the back of your hand will have to do.” Before he could kiss her hand, she recoiled, clasping her hand to her chest. With a shake of her head and an apologetic glance, she took off running, down the path to her father’s farm. 

Riotous laughter erupted behind Markus. Fuming, he stormed back to Marcius and wound up for a slap across the face. Quicker than he could react, Marcius gripped Markus’ wrist and had a hand around his throat.

“You try that again,” Marcius wasn’t laughing any longer. His eyes held a fury that Markus had never seen before. “And it won’t be my hand around your throat but my sword slashing through it.” Markus never challenged his brother again.

Marcius remembered. And he was sorry for it. “I remember.” Markus was relieved.

“You do? You really do?“

“Yes.” Markus wasn’t put off by his brother’s terse response. But he knew he had to quickly bridge the gap and make Marcius see reason. He wasn’t going to die by the hand of his brother. 

“Then, come! It’s been too long.” Markus spread his arms wide in a welcoming gesture, although he still held his weapon, drawn and at the ready. Markus hoped that Marcius would accept the invitation. But he was surprised when Marcius did indeed accept, for his brother lowered his weapon and began the short trek to Markus. 

Marcius wasn’t ignorant, and nor was he naïve; Markus did not intend to reconcile, and he knew this. Marcius knew that if he were in the same position as Markus, then he would do just as his little brother was doing. Create a false sense of camaraderie, and invite the opponent in closer - within striking distance. He neared his brother, eyeing his still-outstretched arms warily. 

“Brother, you’ve aged.”

“As have you. Now, come, embrace me, because - dear God, what is that?” Markus stared with wide eyes at something behind Marcius. Marcius dared to glance behind him, but he heard his brother’s sword whipping through the air, coming straight for his throat. The sound was warning enough.

Their swords clashed and Markus’ weapon was flung from his hand. Marcius grabbed his brother’s collar and forced him to his knees, his sword already at his throat. “A dirty trick,” he seethed. Markus gulped beneath Marcius’ grip, struggling to breathe in his fear. “You don’t seem to remember how the story ended. Do you remember what I said? What I would do if you tried something as silly as what you just did?” 

Marcius saw Markus’ eyes widen in terror as he realized what his older brother meant. He started to stutter in defense of his case and plead for his life, but no sooner did Markus utter, “Please, bro-” had Marcius swiped his sword across his throat, currant red blood gushing from the wound. The light drained from Markus’ eyes, and Marcius leaned in close to whisper in his ear.

“I’m very glad I had you as a brother, dear Markus. But progress means letting go of the things holding you back. And you, my dear, my lovely, were holding me back in the dregs of the past age. It’s time for something new.” Marcius carelessly dropped the lifeless husk of his defeated foe and returned to his fleet of New Age warriors, the blood-red sunrise dawning at his back.