Astoria

f i f t y - o n e

"No," said Antony, drawing his own sword, glad now to have taken it with him. He took a few steps forward, until he was only a short distance away from his brother.

"Jonathan," he said. "I do not wish to fight you, but if this is what it has to come to, so be it."

"Well, well, well," said Jonathan, his voice low. "So be it."

"Landon," ordered Antony, gesturing to the captain of his army who was standing off to the side of the room.

"Yes, Sire?" said the captain, his voice somewhat hesitant, clearly unsure whether or not he should stop this fight.

"Remove Jonathan's restraints and guards. Give him your sword."

"Sire, are you sure that..."

"Do it, Landon!" snapped Antony, gesturing with his sword. Landon gave Antony one last hopeless glance before carrying out his orders.

"Now leave," he ordered.

"But..."

"Now!"

Landon gestured to his men and they left. Antony could hear him whisper to the guards that they would wait outside the door to the throne room in case they were needed.

The door banged shut and Antony faced Jonathan, holding his sword at his side. His brother grinned and took a step towards Antony, brandishing his sword, testing its weight in his hands. "A duel to the death, dear brother," he said. "The throne of Astoria is at stake."

"I don't want to fight you, Jonathan. You have, however, forced my hand."

Jonathan raised his sword. "You were always too soft, Antony." He drove forward, Antony parrying his blow, stepping sideways to avoid it and feinting, throwing Jonathan off balance. The elder soon recovered, turning easily to face Antony once more.

"You're rather skilled, I see," he said.

Antony ignored his brother, finding himself falling into the rhythm of the fight, each feint and twist and parry familiar to him from years of practice with the sword, working until it felt as though the weapon were just an extension of his arm.

The fight went on in this manner for some time until Jonathan stumbled, and Antony pulled back, allowing his brother to regain his balance.

"You might end up paying for your action of mercy, Antony," said Jonathan, spitting each word and, in between each, taking a sharp breath. He swiped his sweaty hair back from his face and advanced once more.

Everything in Antony cried out against this. To fight his brother like this hurt him deeply. Regret followed each swing of the sword. More and more sadness and grief invaded his thoughts as he saw the look in his brother's face as he fought Antony with everything in him. His brother was fighting to win. There was no longer any love for his younger brother. Perhaps there never was. His brother may have been found to be alive, but he still felt dead to the younger man who had grown up wishing that his older brother would notice him and care for him after his parents died.

Antony knew, after the fight had been going on for some time, that he was the better of the two. Jonathan had always preferred ships to the art of swordsmanship. Antony had more endurance and skill, and yet something held him back from bringing his brother down, from striking an injuring blow. He saw in Jonathan's eyes that his brother knew this.

Jonathan smirked, his breathing coming heavy. "You shouldn't hold back, brother," he said. Before Antony could register the action, Jonathan had managed to feint and then to jab his sword directly between the chainmail and the arm guard on Antony's right arm.