Well Dressed Foe
I was called the Well-Dressed Foe.
I was the enemy on those fiendish fields. My combatants would flee the minute they touched the blood-soaked ferns. My parents were my greatest inspiration, ” I implore you, dear, conquer utterly.” They were my inspirations, yes, but they were mistaken. I lusted only for battle; the conquering I left for the corvids who were the true benefactors of my malevolence. Even to the birds…
I was referred to as the Well-Dressed Foe.
They would see my stark black armour as I crested their hills. It never reflected or blinded their eyes; it only sucked in their sunshine like a beguiling onyx. The golden filigree that dotted every curvature became their sun as I stood before what they used for direction. Darkened, sharpened horns protruded skyward to pierce the peaceful clouds when they fell in defeat. Even to the skies…
I was whispered as the Well-Dressed Foe.
To this very day, I remain blissfully ignorant of who came out on top at the end of my many wars. “Did the crown go to those lawful or to those chaotic?” I would whisper out to the fields flooded with hungry harvesters. “Whose side was it I was fighting for?” I would whisper to the sky, blackened with smoke and smog. “Let’s find another!” I would rage through the trees, quickly split asunder. Even to the land…
I was revered as the Well-Dressed Foe.
They would see my slashes of vicious violet raging through the forests. A longsword with a temperament almost of its own accord, knowing no clear distinction or determination beyond that of regality and story-telling. It would trace epistles through the air, sent always with a flourish to make even royalty blush. Maidens and gentlemen in kingdoms far off would be found swooning at the most inopportune moments, be it during prayer or consummation; everyone wondered and yet wished they knew. Even to their doctors…
I was referenced as the Well-Dressed Foe.
For seldom were their better diagnosis given than my presence on your war fronts. I was the symptom and the tonic for their every ailment, an alien in their arteries. Heroes begrudged, and their squires envied, but either only ever found my sword in their hide. They wished and begged for me to be on their side: “Please, we’re well supplied!” “You insult me,” I would chide, tracing their invitation letters to the gods above. Even to the divine…
I was regaled as the Well-Dressed Foe.
Most loved me; some despised me. The gods of victory and battle and war and blood thrived off my successes, but I do not do it for them. The gods of honour and order and balance and survival seethed from my perfected devilry, but I do not do it for them. I am sure I will meet them and wreak my havoc at their doorsteps soon enough, for even the most mighty must rest. Even to my inevitable deathbed…
I was coaxed as the Well-Dressed Foe.
For even as my eyes tired and my sword found less satisfaction in its beautiful handwriting.I ran at the sounds of one last battle. Through a thickened swamp that squelched unbearably under my strength, towards the centre that stood just beyond, a castle that should not stand. But found only an impassable wall and a purple temptress that did not swoon nor elate at the sight of me.
She beckoned me to break it, so I swung and swung but could not best it.
My sword never faltered, nor my armour ever gleaned from damage. Both remained perfectly as they were, in every which way befitted my title as the Well-Dressed Foe.
A tiny, wooden figure approaches the wall and waves a hand. It collapses instantly.
The purple temptress has only since then spoken inside my mind as I walk by her side.
“I have heard of your exploits, the once-called Well-Dressed Foe. But henceforth, you are but only my steadfast guard. This wooden creature has done what you could not.”
