Preparing for battle

The old knight knelt in the ancient grove, hands clasped on the hilt of his sword. His head lowered in silent prayer and contemplation. The sun cut through the canopy of leaves overhead, illuminating the dents and scratches in the knight's armor. Armor that had certainly seen its share of battle. Each dent, each scratch, if they were able, would tell a tale of bravery, sustained in both victory and defeat. The knight's weathered lips moved as he communed with his god. His mustache, once the color of deep chestnut, now shot through with streaks of the purest white, moved in time. As he prayed, a chain of gold swung gently back and forth from his neck, a small platinum medallion hanging at the level of his breast. After a time the knight raised his head and opened his eyes. Though lined with age and a deep battle weariness, eyes the deep blue color of the deepest ice caves regarded the ancient grove. The knight knew his oldest enemy was approaching, that soon this peaceful place would ring with the sounds of battle, the clash of steel upon steel, the harsh breath of combatants. Soon the peace here would shatter as easily as a glass rose dropped on a cold and unforgiving flagstone floor. It wouldn't be long now. Rising to his feet the knight took the medallion and brought it to his lips. With a kiss and a final silent prayer he slipped it underneath the protection of his breastplate so that it lay close to his heart. He regarded his sword, admiring how the sunlight danced along it's blade, tossing reflections onto the grassy surface below. He thought of all the sword had seen, had taken part in. The lives it had ended...and the lives it had saved. Silently, he willed the sword to be faithful and true one last time, one final fight. With a kiss on the surface of the scarred blade he slid the weapon back into its ornate scabbard. His enemy was very close now. He sensed its presence, like a sour aroma in the wind. The aged knight knew that after their many years of battle, today would be the end. One way or the other, after decades of battle, their ancient contest would conclude. A cold breeze began to wind its way through the trees. The bright sun began to dim. With a clenched jaw the knight turned to the entrance of the grove. The battle was about to begin.