On the Field of Flowers where human feet seldom tread, where butterflies float through the breeze in thousands and pollen flows like mist in the noon sun, two figures stand. Here they gather to make death.
A shadow grows out from one figure, long sword unsheathed. Other holds their arms poised to fight as the animals do. Now they advance to meet each other, faster and faster they trample flowers beneath boot and foot.
One slashes and an acre of stems fall, the other jabs and the sweet air is crushed in their palm. Slash and strike and parry and punch continue on and on until the sun can watch no longer and turns its face behind the distant hills.
No moon rises over that trampled field, that once living sea of petal and leaf now dying in the cool night. Still the game, the old dance of swing and strike plays out. Both figures know the outcome well before its conclusion.
After the night, that longest and most impenetrably dark night, the sun gathered it's courage and peeked out, rising from the plain. Horrified, the sun sped upward at what it saw, that Field beyond beauty now reduced to a churned and scared expanse of not even death, but less than death. Simple debris ranged from horizon to horizon, too churned up, too mangled to be recognized as the loss of life. In it's center stood a figure, two halves of a broken sword held in powerful hands.