A Tale of Two Swordsmen
From SCross
"Swordsman, I revoke my blessing. Stand on your own merits or perish."
Odin's words pierced the air like the spear he held might pierce a foe. A rushing sound filled the mountains as Cole felt his ascended power slip away from him. Standing now he was just a man, as he had been before he won his place among the Spirits, facing a foe he never expected.
Yellow eyes stared into yellow eyes as Raven spoke his challenge, leveling the blade of his large sword so it pointed at his surrogate father. "I've come for the title of Master of Weapons, Cole. Draw steel and defend yourself."
Cole's eyes narrowed to slits as conflicting emotions ran through him. Pride, anger, joy, despair. "Raven, I was killing men when you weren't even in the womb. Do you honestly think you can best me in a fight?" The master swordsman that was Gilgamesh reached to the swords at his back, twin blades forged from metal from the stars.
"Stop talking!" Raven had been an angry teen but he was now a man, a man that still longed for revenge for what happened to his sister almost a decade ago. "Odin! Sanctify our combat, that the best man win and take the mantel of Gilgamesh until it be taken from him in a fair fight."
Watching the exchange with a mild look of displeasure, Odin merely nodded, his deep voice booming as he speaks three words. "It is so."
Neither fighter needed a signal to begin. Those words were signal enough. The fight grew intense as both men used every bit of skill they had to defeat the other.
The combat raged for hours, neither man giving quarter to the other. In time, as the fight continued, other Spirits began arriving. Siegfried, who had been both rival and ally to Cole. Ifrit, who had lost more hands of black jack to He Who Was Gilgamesh than anyone. Lady Luck, who had become Cole's companion in Bahamut's Celestial Court.
The two swordsmen fought through the night, seemingly in a stale mate, until just before sunrise one fell. Yellow eyes widened with surprise before the loser fell back upon the rock face of the mountain, the sun rising above the mountain peaks his last sight before his soul passed on.
The victor stood over the fallen as Odin approached, placing a large, gauntleted hand on the swordsman's shoulder. "The best man has won. The mantel of Gilgamesh is yours until a better man comes to claim it."
The swordsman, now enveloped in crimson, a voluminous cloak billowing about his form, pulled away from the hand. Not a word was spoken as the man knelt next to the corpse of the fallen, fingers moving to gently brush the eyes closed. Several tears fell upon the face of the deceased before yellow eyes looked to the risen sun, a cry of regret filling the still morning air.
