I square off today with no intention.
I feel a bit off. My head isn’t in the game, much to my frustration. I curse myself for getting sick, thus preventing me from sparring last week. I move too slowly for my own liking.
What do I want?
I have been killed several times already. My death is meaningless. Just another life.
I square off again and suddenly something plants itself firmly in my brain, in my mind’s eye. You want to come into my circle.
But I’ll be damned if I let you.
“Mine,” I say lowly. “My circle.”
I do not initiate the attack. For right now, you are not a threat. You test the area. You see what I am willing to do. But the second you step into my circle, you are mine enemy.
Get out of my circle! This is mine!
I swipe. I cut. I thrust. I lunge. You will not take what’s mine!
You edge away.
My eyes narrow. Stay out of my circle. This is mine. I won’t let you take it. Mine mine mine! Like a petulant child.
You don’t want it…yet. You have no idea what’s come over me. You don’t realize I’m simply protecting my circle. I’m not ready to fight you here. My circle isn’t big enough. I can’t let you in. I don’t want to die.
You attack again, but I keep you at bay. Stay out of my circle.
You skirt about the edges. That’s fine. Just don’t step over the line. If you do, I will defend my circle.
Stay out of my circle!
There are a few more attempts. You step inside briefly. But I’ll be damned if I let you take this from me. This is my circle. I will defend it to the bitter end.
You will never take what’s mine.
“Are you okay?” you ask. You are not used to this side of me. Hell, I’m not used to this side of me. Not anymore. I have never been this protective of anything.
I smile. “I’m defending my circle,” I say simply. “I can’t let you into my circle.”
I square off against others. They don’t want what’s mine. Now I’m testing my own skill…or lack thereof. I am killed and I kill. There are simple observations along the way. Why did you do that? What are you attacking? Such is the nature of our matches.
You and I square off again. This time, you fight with two short weapons. I have the advantage in two respects: 1) my weapon is longer thus giving me range; 2) you will never take what’s mine.
This time, it’s not about my circle. You want something from me. You want to take it and I don’t want to give it up. I can’t. I won’t let you take what’s mine.
But what am I fighting for?
Whatever it is…I will die protecting it.
Because it’s mine.
This becomes more than my circle. But don’t think I will let you in. Now my circle moves with me. I initiate the attack. You will not take what’s mine. I will fight you for it.
The passes between us are far different than any other match we’ve had before. They’re more aggressive.
On both our parts.
“What are you protecting?”
“I don’t know,” I admit, “but I can’t let you have it.”
It’s too important.
Something in your eyes flicker. A simple nod, and a change of weapons. You hand me a short as well. “Now we’re even,” you say.
Fine and dandy. But you still won’t take what’s mine.
My off-hand weapon is help in a stabbing position. Still defensive, but just as offensive when it needs to be. You will not take what’s mine.
My jaw juts out, my eyes darken. The stakes have just been raised. Stay out of my circle. Stay away from what’s mine. If you do that, then we’re “five-by-five”.
Our fighting circle widens. I keep my personal one close. It is my shield. You won’t take that from me, either.
Such is my determination I am willing to attack. I have to keep you away. You will not take what’s mine! I give chase. I can’t let you anywhere near what’s mine. I have to protect it. You’re trying to take it from me, but I’ll be damned if I let you.
I take hits as good as I give them. This is a different fight. I don’t stop. I don’t care that I have taken a nick or two. They’re inconsequential at this point because I’m not dead.
Yet.
Yes, I will die for what’s mine.
Stay out of my circle. Stay away from what’s mine.
We call it a match. We’re both dead.
I square off again against another. He wants to come into my circle. But I’ll be damned if I let him.
He rushes, I evade. But not without taking a good hit. That’s okay. I’ve killed him. He tried to come into my circle.
He and I have a decent corps-de-corps. His blade slides along my throat. I tell him he should have used more force. He would have sliced my throat, but such is my determination, who says I won’t take him with me to the grave?
You tell me not to give my life up so easily.
“Someone will take my place.”
I stand at the edge of my circle. I readjust it. A gesture that is also warning.
I draw a line and keep him there. Don’t cross the line. I will kill you if you do.
I warned you!
I rush past the line myself. He must die. He is willing to cross the line. I can’t let him!
He takes my weapon from me more than once. But I still don’t back down. I will fight him with nothing in my hands if I have to because he wants to come into my circle. But I’ll be damned if I let him.
You chide me for this, too. “Give the person who takes your place as much time as you can. Don’t give up your weapon.”
A good point. But such is my mind that I will find a way around the weapons.
You and I square off again. “I will take what’s yours,” you tell me flatly.
We’ll see about that.
The same force is still driving me. You will never take what’s mine.
You grab my weapon out of my hand. I have no choice but to let go, or else I’ve lost.
You back down, a frustrated expression upon your features. “Why did you give this up? Don’t die so quickly. How do you know the next person will be fast enough to come and take your place.”
“I don’t,” I reply. There’s something in my voice that I don’t recognize. “But it isn’t over yet.” I could throw dirt. I could throw stones. You never know. You have no idea what I’m willing to do to protect what’s mine.
The wildcat has become a lioness.
“You don’t want it bad enough,” I tell you in the same tone.
You should have killed me.
But you didn’t.
This plants something in your brain. I can see it in your eyes, in your moves. I can feel it in your spirit.
You still won’t take what’s mine. I will die for it.
We swipe. We cut. We thurst. We lunge. We’re both fighting for something.
This is no longer about skill or technique. This is about something so much more.
And yet I still can’t explain what it is.
The other challenges me again. I start to feel the blood of each cut, of each slice. It’s not real, but in my mind’s eye it is. It doesn’t matter. I’ll take a hit or two if it means I can kill my enemy.
I will kill for what’s mine.
I will die for what’s mine.
You will never take what’s mine.
We’ve fought. We’ve killed. We’ve died.
Each of us.
What has he fought, killed, and died for?
What have you?
What have I?
Regardless of what I have given my life for…
No one will ever take what’s mine.
