Drabble: Duel | Part 2

Too eager, you step into my blade.

Was it that moment the sun chased away the storms? How brilliant that misty morning, with you dead at my feet. How cold I was to be suddenly still, dripping wet, the bloody tip of my sword, red and dripping too. Your sword was still in your hand, but useless. Your face, frozen, a mask of shock and pain. And the birds were singing also. How sweet their melody after the storm, like a flutist’s solo responding to the bellows of the brass. The storm and the duel were won and were done.