Iknowonlythatthebattleisspiritualwhocantellmorebutthewarriorstherenoteventhey.

Here He is now. He's crouched to the ground sitting on His feet, left arm around His legs, head resting on His knees. Eyes are pouring over the thing clinched in His hand. His mind slowly turning it, and why. He is known as "He" now because He has been stripped bare, warrior is no longer His name. Even man is to strong a title. He and His antagonist torn to nothing. His antagonist is all thats left in His grip now. No sword, no shield. It's nothing more than what would seem as vines who’ve let forth thorns. Thorns which puncture and keep Him bleeding. As His hand wrenches every moment tighter around them His mind ravages its self for a way out. "Why doesn’t the pain stop?" "Why am I still bleeding?" Had the answer arrived mounted on wings, were it from a sage, or carried to his ears by an aged and wise old man, it would have been ok. But not so, insultingly, from behind Him approaches a fool, one who had seen the battle and cheered always the side that seemed winning. Fool said only "Just let it go." His mind went blank, for a moments time He pondered the idea, hour’s worth of thoughts pouring in and out. Asked himself "Can I?" yes was His decision. As if standing across and watching, like a child would watch a magician working magics, just like that He let it go. O and how his being wondered at the drop. Then He stood, He walked away. His hand still bled. The memory of what He'd held came with the pain everyday, until the wound was healed, reminding Him, asking Him to pick it up again. But He couldn't he'd already walked away, and it was gone.