Throughout the history of his time, mankind has stared up at the heavens with a certain sense of envy in his blood. Limited to the ground, man thirsted for the rights of the gods... he thirsted to fly. Why was it that he was limited so before the gods, while lesser creatures such as birds and mere insects were capable of such great heights? It seemed hardly right at all for such a thing; and thus, the age of flight had its inspiration.

It seems almost comical, looking at us... we must seem like mere ants to the gods, wouldn't you think? Looking up at them like angry children... we are to them as the flies are to us; buzzing annoyances whom we keep alive to maintain balance, for without balance, it is said that chaos will reign.

Of course, that is a tale for another time.

Our story, today, begins much like many stories end... with a final confrontation. A wasteland of death and decay surrounds two devine warriors, who find themselves locked in an eternal stalemate. However, gentle reader... you will soon find that eternity is not quite as long as you might think, and stalemates, though perhaps demanded by the gods themselves, always have the opportunity to be broken.

It only takes a spark, a mere flinch, a change in direction... to alter the course of history itself.

And trust me, dear reader... history surely will be altered on this day.

Silence.

Silence surrounded the scene of chaos and untold bloodshed. Mythology might claim that the city streets echoed with the screams of the damned, the wails of the departed... but it was in fact silence which reigned supreme in those streets. Dust was clinging to every solid object it could find, only adding to the disheveled appearance of the already withering town, and the stench of death and decay was all around. Truly, it was a wonder that there were still some there amongst the chaos... holding out through the scene of destruction.

However, that wonder should quickly fade: for those who remained were only two, and those two were the ones who had caused it all. Countless bodies, littering the streets... and neither seemed to discriminate in their bloodshed. Those two men stood like statues locked in an eternal gaze of death, one eye focused on the man before them... and the other eye covered by the barrel of a gun. The two men were breathing heavily, and their clothes were tattered and stained with blood; yet... it all seemed so strange to them. For all the death they had caused-- the broken bodies and shattered dreams-- they seemed so very reluctant to cause any more.

Perhaps, however... it was because of who they were.

The first of the two men stood but a few inches taller than the other, his long hair flowing down to his shoulers and his features hardened from the wars he had fought through. His gaze, if it were not so filled with fear and confusion, would perhaps show the tenderness of the hardened warrior's heart, and the loyalty he held to the very man whose gun was staring him down. This man... he seemed to emit a soft glow about him-- perhaps an aura, if you will-- that seemed to touch the broken bodies of the fallen and let them be at peace.

The second of the two men, on the other hand, seemed of smaller build and with shorter hair. His features, too, were hardened from the wars he had fought through... but there remained the babyface of a newly recruited rookie, still young and unexperienced. His gaze was also filled with fear and confusion, yet there was a stronger sense of confidence flowing from the man's core... as though it were only natural for him to expect the best. The second man seemed to emit an aura as well, though his was stronger, brighter... and to the fallen who were touched by it, their very skin seemed to crawl, as though it were trying to escape his light.

Perhaps it was out of fear, or perhaps out of respect. Perhaps both, it seemed to matter not to the second man.

There were no words exchanged between the two standing statues, for there were no words neccesarily. The world of chaos surrounding them had been built over years and years of struggle, and there were even bodies lying about that might seem... unfamiliar, to those regular to the broken town. It would be expected, however... for there were so many who had fallen victim to these men, and their spirits seemed inclined to follow them to their deaths.

Therefore, on this day... there stood the two men, their guns held firm. Their eyes, locked in place as though carved in stone. Their mouths forming frowns not of anger, nor of hate... but of, perhaps, disappointment.

Finally, a sound breaks through the silence.

A raven cries out from the rooftops, it midnight eyes seeming to plead silently with the statues to stop the chaos. The raven... a symbol of death among men, and it too was overwhelmed by the sights before its eyes.

A stale wind blew through the town, and with it carried a stench of death stronger then there was before.

Again, the raven cries... not for pleading, but for fear of its own life. The air itself seemed to choke all life who breathed it, and finally the fluttering of wings marked the raven's departure. It was, perhaps, a sign from the heavens... destiny was finally taking place before the world's eyes, yet none could bear it witness. None shall see it, none shall feel it, and none shall hear it. Yet the ungodly smell of death... yes. Perhaps, the world may indeed be allowed to have their nostrils filled with it.

Muscles forced to stay tense cry out for salvation, yet neither man's arm seems willing to tremble. Their eyes, filled with tears born from either the situation at hand or the stench of their works left behind them. To think, long ago... these men had been so close, so very loyal to each other... that they would follow the other to the death. One, it seemed, could not live without the other... and yet here they were.

And though neither wished for it, they were ready to kill.

The bodies of the fallen seemed to cry out for both to pull their respective triggers, their bloodlust from beyond unquenched and their eyes focused on the scene, waiting to see the day that they may finally be at rest. Yet even their restless spirits seemed to be at odds with one another... for each one only wished to see the one who'd slain them fallen before his enemy's feet. Yes, it seemed... even the realm of spirits was torn in conflict over theirs.

So many fallen at both their hands... it only seemed appropriate, now, that one would have to fall to the other.

"Tell me," spoke the one, his voice cracking under the strain in his throat, "old friend... I want you to tell me something."

There came no reply. The second man stared at the first with unwavering eyes, unflinching fingers... he would not put down his guard. In the times of old, this would be the first man's sign that all would be okay... to start a conversation in such a dire situation, it was clear that he only wished for the pain to fade away. Yet here it was, and here they were... their fingers still on the trigger, and their sights still aimed for the other's head.

"You..." he began, his voice still cracking, "have killed so very many of these people... and all without hesitation. You did... did what you thought you had to. No mercy... no regrets."

The second man remained silent, yet a twitch in his eye revealed the words were getting through. Perhaps, indeed... these men were more than statues. They stood strong before one another, yet broken from the inside; and while one was ready to speak his mind... the other stayed proud, stayed strong, stayed true to who he was. Where one man stood determined in his sincerity, the other man stood firm in his hope for survival.

Finally, he spoke again... as the screams of the fallen to see the end of it all continued to go unheard, or, perhaps, simply heard without care.

"How many fingers... are on this trigger? Too many, old friend... too many stand here with me."

And still, just as many stood with the other.

"All of them, friend... they all stand here with us. Every... every last one."

Every last one... from the end of all things, to the start of it all.