Two Fatal Blows

Words were launched, sharp like arrows, aimed to kill.
Volley after volley, blotting out the sun, blackening the sky.
Each one found its mark, severing arteries, tearing flesh, spilling blood.
She shot with accuracy, never missing a beat.
He aimed at random but his sporadic shots caught vital organs.

Their armor was as useless as mist, hardly deflecting a breath.
The ground was bright red.
The air hinted of decay.
There would be no winner at the end of this war.

When they called off their firing, when the smoke from the battle cleared, no victory was found.
Only two broken beings, slashed and ripped apart, falling to their knees in agony.
The death of what lay between them wasn't easy.
It was long.
It was torture.
It ripped out their hearts.
It smothered their cries.

But neither warrior breathed a hint of remorse.
They both felt the righteousness of their call to battle.
They both felt the other in the wrong.
Their war was swift.
Their war was brutal.
And their war was one from which no allies could hope to be recovered.

They thought it was a battle to the death,
but they were fighting Death all along,
and it was not in Death's nature to be overthrown.
And in the end, it dealt two fatal blows.