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I'm back again with another amusing tale for you. I invite you now to the past! Good reading!

Strugglers

     Snow already mantled the ground. That which had been born of the creative feminine forces of nature was now defiled by man’s masculine-beastly destruction.

       Corpses littered the reddish snow, blood drying on their bodies. The cruelty of a battle had beset upon their skulls. The remains were no longer steaming on the breeze-swept mountain and their souls, like the heat of their bodies, had left them. The eternal ridge, as old as Earth itself, didn’t waste its time on mortal man; it only tolerated him disinterestedly. Though if it had looked at the battlefield at this moment…

       Two men approached one another.

      One was a Barbarian with long, matted hair, naked arms in his drenched clothes and torn leather cuirass. His face was painted according to pagan practice—his belief was that this magic would protect his skull against the strikes aimed for it. He was exhausted, but he didn’t care; he was happy to be alive. However, his happiness wouldn’t last long. The moment he noticed his enemy, he reached down and pried a weapon from the hands of his dead comrade—the hatchet had drunk blood from a Roman’s head as long as the red liquid flowed. He then took hold of a seasoned oak shield from a horseman who now lay amongst the others.

     The other man, a Roman, stood in place and watched the Heathen. He planted his feet as firmly as the roots of an old pine tree. His feet and legs were covered with wool stockings, and encased in military boots, calcei. His shins were shielded by metal protectors, under which he wore wool trousers. He protected his upper body with chain mail, and his head, unlike the Savage’s, was shielded by a helmet. On his side hung his short sword; in his hands he held a spear.

     Their eyes met, the Barbarian stopped. Time, which could have been a moment or an eternity long, was as motionless as these two men. Even the air around them seemed coldly still. They stood like statues carved from dead stone. But they were indeed very alive. Each man slowed his breath to calm himself and to gather his resolve. Without their awareness, the pattern of their heartbeats slowly synchronized. When they finally charged at each other, to a beholder their clash might have looked like the ancient struggle of now vanished giants. Their battle cries flew toward the skies—cries so desperate and at the same time so resolute, each beginning with a low rattle.

     The Savage snapped the ash-wood spear with his hatchet as if it were a piece of reed. Yet this did not halt the Roman’s charge, for he struck his opponent in the head with the other end of the broken spear. And while the Heathen staggered back, the short blade slipped whisperingly out of its scabbard.

     The Barbarian charged again, but the legionary eluded him and parried the strike of the hatchet. No matter how the Savage tried, he could not disarm his rival. Strike followed strike, and when the hatchet missed, the oak shield hit the mark. The legionary showered strikes of steel on the Heathen, leaving long gashes that bore resemblance to the ritual markings meant to protect the Savage.

       As the Barbarian became ever more enraged he tried to break his enemy’s sword. But the blades vainly twanged and vomited sparks; the sword didn’t break. The strikes dented here and there the legionary’s helmet, yet the killer hatchet could not damage the Roman’s skull. And though the head of the legionary ached, he still found consolation in the sound of his pulsing blood, which animated him to kill.

       The Roman’s sword struck the oak shield, slicing into the wood as a ship cleaves the water of the sea which then vapors into foam and spray. The shield broke in two with a loud creaking crack. Both strugglers tottered back only to charge anew against each other. They slowed, for they were now fatigued. They collided anew and as the charge bore down on each they divided like billows; they hit each other like waves. Finally they had become so exhausted that they had to retreat a bit further away, yet still close enough to each other. They both fell on their knees gasping for air like beasts, and leaning onto their chipped weapons to gather some strength for the final clash.

       The savoury taste of blood mixed with sweat flowed into their mouths and over their teeth, teeth as imperfect as the stockade of the garrison from which the legionary came. The same thoughts raced through each mind, and they stood up again in the same moment, like dancers performing long planned and practiced steps. With trembling hands they slowly raised their weapons above their heads. And once again, Time, which could have been a moment or an eternity long, was as motionless as these two men. Nothing moved, nothing could be heard.

       A silent, shivering breeze swept across the battlefield. Then once again, the battle cries of the strugglers rose anew, as clear and vivid as if they had just commenced their fight.

       That unison cry was heard by the mountain, a mountain that was older than old; and as yoked animals shake themselves to get rid of flies, so the alp shook its hoary snow beard.

       So blinded by their wrath were the strugglers that they failed to notice the strange echoes. The hollow rumble of the avalanche interrupted their fierce and blinded rage. Even as they ran at each other, they turned their heads aside as the snow charged down upon them like rabid horses. The strugglers collided but forgot about striking. As they rebounded off one another, the icy hooves of the snow herd crumpled them under itself.

       As the rumbling ceased, a pre-human silence alit on the back of the crag like an owl landing on a tree to waylay his prey. And once again fresh snow mantled the ground with its virgin colour.