Duel: Maximinus Thrax vs Ybbon

**Scottish King** · May 22, 2014, 05:37 PM

Image courtesy of Radboud

Maximinus Thraxvs.Ybbon

Gentlemen's Duel

Duelist 1

Spoiler Alert, click show to read:

The Winter Soldier.

I watch the frost threads slowly climb the window pane with their fractal patterns appearing like tiny fingers creeping across the glass to obscure the view outside. The first light snowflake tumbles down, so light and delicate it dances away with every gust of wind, skittishly shying away from its inevitable ending on the lawn outside my window, but slowly it loses the battle and slides to the ground to linger only a second or two before it melts away.

The first snowflake melts but now it’s compatriots start to fall in ever increasing numbers, the first flake just a scout for the army behind, it’s loss tragic for the flake but of no consequence to the vast army it precedes. Now the flakes are heavier and falling fast covering the last blades of grass and blanketing the ground with gentle white undulations.

As the snow builds it’s ramparts to the kerbs and garden walls, the tarmac disappears under the whiteness, each flake adds to the silence deadening the sounds of traffic to a distant wet susurration as cars and buses slowly made their way towards the yellow lights of the high street. A group of school children trudge past, a boy and girl lost in each others company go first, she snuggled in as close as she can into his shoulder, white flakes covering their heads, red noses and cheeks glowing.

Happy shrieks precede the next group chasing each other with snowballs flying, two boys run past laughing loudly with a third just behind, covered in snow - the victim of the first two pushing him into a drift. a few more children struggle past, kicking up the snow as they head towards the warmth of their houses.

The frost fingers continue to invade my window, icy patterns sparkle with the lights forming elaborate swirls as they grow. The snow is falling slowly but steadily now, the heavy infantry of winters army building up the layers outside, the grass has long been covered up and now the rose bushes have become formless humps. On the road only a few people drive carefully past now, each with their wipers slowly dragging the snow off the windscreens, trying to stay in the tracks other cars have mode.

Suddenly I’m struck with a new found enthusiasm and get ready with boots and coat and step out into the whiteness, my breath fogs in front of me but I breathe in deeply and enjoy the way the cold pierces my nose and chases the last of my lethargy away. I start to make a snow ball, and roll it around and round, making a big ball and leave it at the front of the garden peering over my fence. Now a second smaller ball and I heave this onto the first, then using a shovel I pile the snow around and between the two snow balls to form a single looming statue of snow, carving arms and a stern face to watch out over the fence.

Now my snowman is complete and time for the last of his equipment, an old saucepan for a helmet, a broom for a rifle and I have my very own winter soldier to guard my house, all prepared to wait the cold out until the warmth of Spring returns.

Duelist 2

Spoiler Alert, click show to read:

The last blizzard had ended about six hours ago. It was a miracle the bone-chilling cold of the steppes hadn’t claimed his life yet, after spending no less than two long days under the open sky in the middle of nowhere, struggling to withstand the wrathful assaults of the Russian winter. The corpses of several of his companions from the 8th Hussar Regiment, along with their shabby horses, were scattered around for dozens of meters, after having succumbed from prolongued exposure to below-freezing temperatures. Such a pitiful sight to behold… Not even the warmth of a campfire could have saved their lives, because once they fell asleep they were as good as dead. That’s why most of them had chosen to roam about the bivouac, ignoring the blizzard while futilely hoping to resist the temptation of getting asleep in the most hostile environment known to man. Within a few hours, irremediably weakened and frazzled by the harsh conditions, they collapsed to the solid ground, never to get up again.

This young hussar and the frozen bodies half buried in the snow were just an insignificant part of the grand army which had marched across Europe in an unprecedented attempt to compel the Tsar to sue for peace. Ill-equipped and largely driven by reckless confidence, the conglomerate of nations marching under the banners of the French Empire was ultimately driven out by Russia’s most impredictable ally, General Winter, seconded by its aides de camp - Starvation, Cold, and Disease.

The intermittent breath exhaled through the nostrils was the only sign that a trace of life was still residing inside the body of the young hussar, the last survivor of his squadron. Otherwise he could have easily been mistaken for a corpse. Lying down on the snowy ground with the back leaning against his dead horse, the Frenchman was gradually becoming immune to cold weather, due to the devastating effects of the frostbite, because of which he could no longer move or coordinate his numbed limbs in a proper manner. Covered in blisters filled with fluids, his skin began to slowly turn blue around the face and hands, while at the same time gaining an unusual waxy appearance. Death was just around the corner, prowling like a wild beast in search of the next prey.

Half-conscious and torn by pain, he realized for the first time that death had many aspects, and the one he had bravely faced on countless occasions was just one of its facets, albeit the more recognizable one. He would have preferred the soldierly fate of dying by the sword rather than having to become a helpless witness to his own demise. The Frenchman had always believed Death resembled a hideous hag clad in black rags, but it seems this time Death wore white.

”Francuzskie sobaki zdes!” (The French dogs are here!), a gruff voice erupted at about one hundred meters behind the hussar’s position, disturbing his train of thoughts. The sound of snow crunching underneath the feet increased in intensity, signaling the presence of at least two other persons in the area. His heart began to pound inside the chest like an animal who tries to set himself free from a cage.

Cossacks!

With great efforts, the Frenchman discerned two dismounted Cossack cavalrymen as they passed him by, heading towards his fallen comrades most likely to loot their corpses. The hussar was safe for now, since the two had probably ignored him thinking he was already dead.

The atrocities triggered by wars were not a novelty, but observing these brutish creatures despoiling his friends with such feverish motions embittered him profoundly. What cursed times had befell the human race, turning fellow men into feral scavengers... He had seen and experienced enough to know how life tasted like. Now, it was time to leave this sorrowful place behind for good, hopefully at the hand of those two ravenous vultures once they finished with their feast. There was absolutely no sense in trying to deceive his mind that he could have somehow survived if carried over to the next encampment, because such place didn’t exist for hundreds of miles.

But the vultures had already filled their stomaches - gold watches, necklaces, rings and other shiny trinkets. It was time to flee the field of corpses, to avoid the massive snowstorm already looming over the steppes. As they prepared to move on, a groan of pain reached their ears out of nowhere, like a low-pitched cry of distress coming out from the swollen lips of a dying man:

”Milost!” (Mercy!)

The arm of a wretched man half covered in snow and ice was reaching out in the air, begging for help. Thoroughly baffled, the Cossacks couldn’t believe their eyes. Once they got near him, the man placed his stiffened index finger upon his chest, around the heart area, as if trying to convey a message. A clean pistol shot through the heart destined to end the suffering of a doomed creature - the last wish of a dying soldier.

Aware of its meaning, one of the Cossacks drew a flintlock pistol and took aim at the heart of the Frenchman, a gesture which was met with a faint smile of gratitude. For a brief moment, glimpses of his life and everything he had hold dear passed in front of the hussar’s eyes, sailing away into the eternal oblivion. And then, the cold embrace of Death itself, the mankind’s black-clad mistress…

**Lugotorix** · May 22, 2014, 07:14 PM

It's not my place to judge. However, I seem to favor the phantasmal abstract as it correlates to something substantive rather than the cold hard grit of reality, which has it's own advantage. Sometimes the short hand reaches longer.