After half a year of emo posts, it feels good to write something manly again!
It was the time of White Knights and Black Knights in medieval England.
Clearly as day and night, the White Knights were upholders of justice, peace and righteousness while the Black Knights were the purveyors of wrath and wickedness.
So the story is told of a lone White Knight who traversed the land in his relentless quest to defeat and rid the realm of every last Black Knight.
Miles and miles he rode, kept company only by his trusty steed and lance. He seldom stopped for anything but to cook a meal and sleep at night.
He never smiled, never cried, and never once looked behind. The only thing that drove him come rain or shine, day after day, was his unyielding desire to vanquish the Black Knights.
Over the years, he became so honed at his craft that no Black Knight could last more than a solitary minute against him. He knew just by looking into their eyes exactly which way they would attack and the best way to counter them.
Anticipate their attack. Parry their strike. Disrupt their balance. Finish them quick.
It was the same story every time. The steed would rear and whinny, while the Black Knight grimaced in pain and tumbled into the mud. As his horse galloped away, the Black Knight looked up at the White Knight approaching with his lance raised and knew that death was inevitable. He could only pray for it to be swift.
The fear in their eyes as the clutches of death loomed over them - it thrilled the White Knight to see fearsome warriors such as them reduced to whimpering cowards before his might.
One moon-washed night after an evening drizzle, the White Knight rode searching for a place to retire. As he went down an inconspicuous dirt path, an ever-so-slight rustle in the bushes caught his ear.
Wary, he raised his lance and directed his steed to the source of the noise.
"Halt! Are you friend or foe?"
From the shadows a White Knight appeared. Relieved, our protagonist lowered his lance and saluted.
Before the other White Knight pierced through his armour with a fatal strike.
Shocked beyond speech, he fell off his steed onto the muddy earth.
Why did the White Knight attack me? Has he no code of valour?
I always knew no Black Knight could defeat me. How ironic that I should die at the hands of a White Knight.
As he lay there, life seeping out of him, he chanced upon his reflection on a puddle.
He had become a Black Knight himself.
When a man fights evil, he must first of all take care not to become evil himself.