i. It was a war, I suppose, of battle cries and curses, and the adrenaline of weaving a tale of broken glory and honour upon history.
Your blood stained me, stained everything: my hands, my hair, my clothes and my mind.
You were everything to me, both weakness and strength, both enemy and ally, all churning together in an ocean of uncertainties, and I always was a poor navigator.
I never had any delusions of what we were, yet you graced the battlefield as though you had stepped out of Arthur's day, mock chivalry apparent in your lilting voice as you most humbly begged for my surrender, for my swearing of fealty to you.
There was no surprise for you, I know, when I snarled my reply, when I bit out that I would never back down, that I was my own person, first, last and always.
Our end was forever waiting for us, in a hail of screams and words poisoned with regret, in a promise of destuction most true, it always had been.
ii. It was a cold war, if nothing else, and the battlefield was naught but sullen compromise called out across the room.
You thought yourself a lion; a predator, with fangs bared to tear the flesh from my body.
Our history was fractured, an ornate mirror that reflected our most carnal selves that now lay in shards upon the ground; the victim of a clenched fist.
I knew we always fancied ourself conquerors of that foreign land tentatively named love, yet we had fallen too heavily into the game, had staked our claims for dominance far too early to have realised what consequences would rain fire down upon us.
I had suspected your pride would leave you stood there, an army made up of false truths and twisted statements behind you as you declared yourself independent from me, words that would haunt you until the world ended.
Our end was crafted by our own hands, our fates intertwined until I lead you to your fall and you lead me to mine - mutually assured destruction, as only we could make it