Knife Fight

From the mouth, blood flows more naturally than language. From the eyes, blood flows more naturally than perception. Whose blood is it anyway? Dripping down the concrete, swirling down the drains, staining our soles...

Is it mine? Or is it yours?

* * *

Regaining her strength, Kaatrina Blanche lets her weight fall on her left side as she limps through the woods. Glancing at the stars, she searches for the big dipper and takes a moment to confirm it has been about four hours since she left home base. Her sword remains clutched in her right hand dragging in the ground, but she is careless to cover her tracks. Her feet begin to throb. Aware of her wounds’ refusal to be ignored, she responds to her pain and pauses briefly to meditate under the towering trees above. The wind grazes against the leaves who have not yet fallen despite the cold. They must be waiting, Kaatrina thinks to herself. The shadows have already begun to dissolve into the night when she hears the rustling from up above. In this forest, there is only one who could get so close without detection, she curses, and I know he wants me dead. Steadily, she listens. A crow flies from a black bough, and another follows. A set of eyes pierce the night sky, belonging to an owl whom perched on high, is watching. From here, the moonlight catches something Kaatrina cannot see: the light ricochets on the pointed tip of an arrow, and within an instant this point flares out of sight and catches Kaatrina’s shoulder, jolting her back a half-step. The blood is not shy, it begins to welcome itself quickly out of her flesh, staining the armor as it trails. He does not keep himself hidden for long, he knows she is quick and will spot him. He gracefully leaps from the shadows of the trees; arms outstretched with his right leg lifted, The Wolf lands on the softened soil on one knee, leaving about twenty-five feet betwixt. Kaatrina pulls the arrow from her shoulder, but he is unfair and relentless, and he shoots another four. But she is quick and cunning; she deflects two arrows with her sword and quickly releases her dagger from its holster to block the fourth. His third shot missed. He puts the bow away slowly, which annoys her.

“Fight me if that’s what you’re here for!" she scoffs.

In an instant The Wolf seizes his blade from his right side without moving and switches it open, tip facing down. Kaatrina muses on this, a knife fight. You wanna go out just like your ol’ man dontcha?

“Coward,” she spits into the ground.

At this, he bolts for her and the fight ensues. He aims for her face but she ducks and swings at his feet. Ceaselessly they charge at one another in harmony, dancing beneath a moonlit forest, both holding the other as prey. She is a master swordsman; the advantage is hers. The Wolf becomes increasingly irritated and begins thrusting his switchblade wherever he can. She parries almost all of them. He widens his jaw and barks at her, teeth glaring, which she takes as a failed attempted to intimidate. He swings his blade back and forth, nicking her on the wrist once. Kaatrina sneers. Plunging forward with a heavy step, The Wolf slashes his blade. He nearly manages to replace her sneer with a Joker’s smile but her speed is not to be underestimated; tilting her head back, he only catches hold of her mask, tearing it from her. Too close, she scolds herself. She lunges towards him but The Wolf dodges to the side in one fluid move. She swivels in his direction, and they begin to circle. The earth breathes through the threshold that separates them. His menacing eyes are blazing red as he reaches for his sword now with heavy hands, and holding it above his head he thrusts it forward only to be met with hers in the air with a resounding ‘clang!’ that echoes along the forest floor. He howls and leaps back ten feet, pausing to glare. Snickering, Kaatrina's dagger motions for his return. He reaches for his bow prepared to aim for her heart. The Wolf however, has dropped his remaining arrows when he leaped back. His face flushes, and with a quick glance of the ground before them, both Kaatrina and The Wolf catch sight of his loose arrows. She waits for no one. Now. She bolts in his direction. Keeping her mind set on his throat, she anticipates his blood smearing and spreading on her flesh as it gapes out of his own. The Wolf too, however, is swift, and makes it to his fallen arrows first with only a few feet to spare between. He seizes upon his chance and in one breathe he drives his last four arrows straight into her chest, one feather following the other seamlessly. Inertia forces Kaatrina backwards but she only stumbles without falling. The wind caresses her face harder than she would have liked, revealing her wide bloodshot eyes. The Wolf gazes back, awaiting her next move or fall. In that frozen second between stand off and fighting, her eyes begin to vibrate with extreme passion. She begins yelling—screaming!—and while crying out her war song Kaatrina reaches for her sword. About ten feet separate them. Lunging for his throat with ruthless poise, Kaatrina bolts. She can feel her body weakening, drifting from her control—but she is not ready, she has not finished! The arrows stay contained within her flesh, they hurt, and it causes her great agony that she can feel her strong inner balance deteriorate slowly. Their swords meet once again and continue their dance, this time with more vigor and vice. Overwhelmed by her heart rate, her increasing pain and lack of control, it occurs to her that she may lose this. But her eyes are wide—and bloodshot still, and indeed—even if fast, my heart still beats beneath my broad chest, she reminds herself. Her slashes abate in force when suddenly, a gush of pain jolts through her body. Looking down she knows The Wolf has struck her upper abdomen. Her stomach aches, her arms lose tension and her legs begin to weaken. Kaatrina falters to the ground, landing on one knee with her hand tightly wrapped around her sword still. The Wolf takes a moment to watch. As he gazes down upon his arrows planted so smoothly into her body, her left hand clutching her right rib from his swords final blow, for the moment, he considers the battle won and drops his snout back to howl his amusement. Although not a sound is echoed amongst the forest floor, except for the cracking of a spine, the gushing flow of blood, and a thud as The Wolf’s head is separated from its host and falls to the ground. Kaatrina's sword follows, shuttering on the soil.

Her tongue is soaked with the taste of blood. Bruised and winded, body in agony, and breathing heavily, she gives in to gravity and allows her strength to leave, not even able to stand against the now soft breeze of the wind. Kaatrina collapses. She tries not to think of what she left, or the price on her head, as she loses herself to the stars above. Instead she focuses on blood; she muses on the difference of texture and feeling the dry blood has compared to the wet, which streaks her face. She begins to feel the flow of the deep red river finding new ways out of her flesh; blood flowing from her mouth and eyes, effortless and wicked, as if mocking her. She remembers a conversation with her grandmother before she slowly drifts away: From the mouth, blood flows more naturally than language. From the eyes, blood flows more naturally than perception. Whose blood is it anyway? Dripping down the concrete, swirling down the drains, staining our soles...

Is it mine? Or is it yours?