You stand there as King Arthur by twilight, when in real daylight you are a MacBeth. The sword fight is but a piece of theatre, a chance to deliver a glancing blow.
When your sword-fighting draws real blood from my skin, and when you feign injury to cover your deed, you should yield your blade and pick up a weapon more befitting of such foul intentions.
The sword fight is supposed to bring a sense of chivalry and fair-play, yet that is the stuff of the bards tales and legend. Here in the opening there are no gentlemen, only long knives beneath the heavens.
The sound of our swords clashing is enough to break my heart, for no matter the overtures of peace I make, he comes in for the kill, never as play.
The sword fight takes place in the light, upon a warm day with spring flowers. Though I ask him to see the beauty that is all around us, all he sees is the blade of steel, never the green wands of grass.
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