The Dagger

Time seemed trapped. I knew it was just the stress, but I felt as though everything that was happening was happening at the bottom of the ocean, the movements and sounds made sluggish by the water. My lungs struggled for breath, gasping and choking. My heart pounded in slow, thundering beats like a war drum. 

I stood, empty handed and restrained. My foe’s hand had my one good arm trapped in a vice grip, like a snake holding me still as it prepared to deliver the killing blow. I stared at my enemy as he slowly drew his blade. A thousand thoughts raced through my mind, calculating strategies and probabilities, distances and angles. By my estimate, I had ten seconds to live. Give or take. It depended on how long he took to savor the moment.

Ten seconds.

Strangely, I felt no fear of my impending death. After all, I had always cared little for my own safety, when compared to the lives of others. It was that for which I feared - the deaths of others. Of my people. After all, this duel was the last beat. The final decision. Life, peace, and freedom for my people - or their complete and utter destruction. Their slaughter.

Nine seconds.

The only way to save them was to live, but I was completely disarmed. Of course, I had my sister’s dagger slipped into my left armguard. She had insisted I bring it, just in case. She was foolish to think I’d use it. Daggers, poison, those were her weapons. The only way to defeat someone with a dagger was if they were vulnerable - on the ground, or with their back to you, or already injured. I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a coward’s weapon - the use of any weapon takes courage - but it was certainly not a weapon of honor. I had never fought with daggers because they relied on vulnerability in the opponent. The whole point of my fight was to stand up to those preying on the vulnerable. At least, I told myself that was the reason I didn’t want to use the dagger. But in my thundering heart, I could hear the real reason. To incapacitate someone without killing them was difficult enough with a sword - but with a dagger? If I drew that dagger, if I used it to survive, I would have little choice but to kill my opponent. To feel the warmth of his blood as he died. To be responsible for someone else losing a father, a son, a brother, a friend. Could I really do that? Was I even capable? Would I actually be able to sink the blade into his flesh or would some corner of my mind stay my hand, freezing it as if trapped in ice? The corner that remembered losing my own brother, my own friends, my own parents. Could I really inflict that pain on someone else?

Eight seconds.

I could hear my sister’s voice in my head, scolding me for thinking about such things when I was about to die. Asking how I could put the happiness of his loved ones over the freedom of my people. What did I care about his life? What did I care about the grief of his family? But that was just it - the grief of a family was unbearable. To cause it, to rip someone away from those who loved them - how could I live with myself?

Seven seconds.

Maybe I could just use my dagger to deflect my opponent’s sword. Not to actually strike. I could grab it from its cavity inside my armguard - my hands were already close together, albeit pinned behind my back. Draw it and slice my foe’s hand to free myself, then bring it up to deflect the sword which drew ever nearer to my face. And then? What then? The pommel wasn’t heavy enough to knock him out. I could get away - but could I defeat him? Could I - could I kill him? It was what my people needed… but was it even something my mind would let me do? 

Six seconds.

First things first. I drew the dagger, slicing into my enemy’s hand, the blade biting his flesh. His arm flinched away automatically. I didn’t know what to do next. My hand was frozen, and I didn’t know if it was from indecision or if my mind really was restricting me from striking for fear of killing. A bit of both, most likely.

Five seconds.

I saw an opening. Under his helmet, some of the chainmail had shifted - not much, but just enough that I could slip my blade through and pierce his neck. He tried to grab me, restrain me, disarm me. I twisted my hand around to keep my dagger away from his grip.

Four seconds.

He had drawn his sword now, and was bringing it up to strike. Crippled with indecision, I made no move. Stab him in the neck? Just deflect the blade and keep the battle going? Find some way to let him live and risk the slaughter of my people, or kill him and never forgive myself? His hand grabbed mine, trying to twist the dagger away. 

Three seconds.

I heard my sister’s scream. I glanced her way. Instead of the terror or anger I expected to see in her face - it was impatience. Then I distinguished her words - Just do it already!

Two seconds.

I spun my arm, cutting his hand again, and his grip loosened. I brought it up, aiming its tip for his weakness. For his vulnerability.

One second.

His blade just barely kissed my face before clattering out of his hand in shock and alarm. I withdrew my dagger and blood burst out of his jugular. He stumbled back, hands to his throat, his screams muted, before he collapsed, blood still pouring out in pulses as his heart slowly came to a stop.

My people were free.

And I would never be.