They fought as legends. Their blades flickered in constant movement around themselves, flashes of bright light against the encroaching darkness. They cut down soldier after enemy soldier but still the flood of darkness came. They fought back to back with a circle of death around them. But the enemy did not fear them. They simply moved their dead out of the way to make room for fresh combatants in a bid to wear the two warriors down until they finally made a fatal mistake.
The noon day sun came and went hours ago and now twilight descends. The fading light of the sunset casts eerie shadows upon their blood spattered faces. Their lips are turned up in lazy smirks, their eyes half lidded in boredom. None of the blood that makes their armor dark and slick is their own. This was the end of their journey. There was no getting out of this hellhole of a battlefield. There was no chance of success. They weren't walking away from this but they knew that when they walked onto the field with their gleaming swords. It was a suicide mission to buy enough time for the others. The others had been surprised at the volunteers' seemingly unselfish and out of character act, but honestly, how could they miss the ultimate challenge, the ultimate test of their skills and endurance. The others didn't understand that this was what the two warriors had been looking for all this time.
Not a step was out of place. Their balance was perfect. Their form flawless. Their technique unstoppable. Together they moved in unison to the deadly dance of swords. Even after the hours of fighting, they felt rested and energized.
They lifted their voices up in a somber chant of their people. They sang out the battle songs of old lore. Their voices heralded death for thousands and thousands of enemies that keep pressing forward. They sang of old victories and retold the ballads of old battles. They laughed at jokes that they've told before. They share stories of their own, remembering a sweeter childhood. They never stop moving.
Through the night the clash of their swords against the enemies flesh can barely be heard over the shuffle of feet and armor as the flood of darkness focuses on the two dancing lights at their center. All forces are turned inward, all attention drawn to the two warriors as they continue to cut down the swarm.
Dawn brings the first drawn blood, a grazing scrape across the forearm. The warriors cheer and renew their attacks with vigor. Mid morning sees another injury, a blunt blow to the leg. The warriors praise the dark enemies and taunt them for more. Come noon there were dozens of shallow cuts between the two of them, lightly leaking crimson that mixes with the sheen of sweet covering their skin. That afternoon, the warriors found themselves winded and the grips of their swords slick. The required time had passed to give the others the advantage to their own tasks but the warriors had to escape. The doors were sealed by now, keeping the darkness trapped forever in this realm of not. Still their pride would not let the warriors set down their swords and accept their fate so lightly. They continued to fight, to cut down the infinite enemy.
Twilight comes again. They feel the first strands of weariness and rejoice. They have found the ultimate challenge and have bested their own expectations. Their injuries are slowly sapping their strength. The edges of their swords are no longer as sharp as they were. Their footing has missteps that cost them extra energy that they don't have to spare. Their songs take on the celebratory note of their people's funeral dirges. They don't know what lies beyond death but they know that they have been rewarded already in life.
The darkness of the night makes it harder to see their dark enemies faces. The warriors are battered by rough, lucky shots that break through crumbling defenses. Their dance is no longer a elegant but now practical, survivalist. They continue to move because to do otherwise would be to accept defeat and they have no concept for that word. Their laughs ring out through the night with each blow, with each cut, with each hit they earn.
The diameter of their attack decreases as the sky lightens in predawn. Their backs are presses against each other as each warrior keeps moving enough to survive the next breath. They get a moment's respite for each enemy they manage to kill as their foe must drag the body away before pressing the next one forward. As the sun breaks over the horizon exposing the endless fields of dark enemies, the warriors fall. They clasp each other's hands in a warrior's farewell with smiles plastered on their faces as their last breaths pass their lips and the dark enemies tear into their bodies in reward for two days of battle.
Only when their blood lust has been sated do they realize that the gates that lead have been sealed.
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