Disclaimers: This is so completely not my fault. You had to do it, didn't you, Rhi?

I was going to post this fluffy little Amanda and Matt abc piece. No angst, no pain, no fear. I'd even gotten it half-written. And then I had to go and sleep.... *sigh*

I don't know where the hell this one came from. One of my crew of muses, but I haven't a clue which one, therefore am officially blaming it on the lot of them. If you listen closely, you'll be able to hear the indignant squawks.

I don't even believe in the damn Gathering. Sheesh.

Title is from Shakespeare. I'm sure y'all can place it. Blame for the fic can be laid squarely at Rhi's feet: her challenge, her fault. So there. --tarsh

Darkness shrouds this, their final battlefield. Ecstatic cries fill the still air, pain and pleasure twining indistinguishable within them, borne on wings of fire which do little to illuminate the terrible beauty of this lonely contest. False victory indeed, what little there is--no sooner is one fight won, one head rolling, than another challenger appears to take up arms and fill the place left by the fallen.

Graven images carved on the long journey to this barren field where all but one will perish; they watch, these representations of gods long dead, watch impervious as one by one their petitioners fall, unmoved by the plight of their faithful. Hardly a contestant has not contributed one to the pile; faced with remorseless death, even the least superstitious of immortals has reverted to childhood demons and gods with pleas of strength, luck, and victory in the coming battle. Idols long fashioned in final desperation, for all the good they can do here in this dark hell. Joke as they may, in their final moments none can deny the belief in their heart.

Kindled fire in their minds, they'd made their way here, in ones and twos and threes, from all ports of the earth. Last chance--to fight, to live, to die--was upon them, or soon would be. Making this one last journey into a monument to all they'd yet to accomplish and now most likely never would, they'd arrived at the last at the ends of the earth, in this darkness that never seems to lift, and raised their swords in one final salute, one ultimate farewell to life as they had known it.

Naught left to hold them, now, they'd fallen upon one another in the darkness: no finesse in this, their final battle--centuries, millennia of experience rendered meaningless by the compulsion to hack, slice, cut, until heads roll and the lightning is released, illuminating for a mere second this horrendous and compulsive life-taking. Only to be wiped from centre stage by the swing of a sword, the inevitable resumption of this carnage masquerading as a battle. Partially hidden as they are within the almost-constant darkness, it is impossible for any to tell who they fight; lover, foe, friend--no way to know whose sword they strike, whose flesh they impale, whose neck they sever.

Quickenings go off like fire-crackers, and never before has their breath-taking display seemed so pointless as it does painted against this backdrop of blood and rage and fear, so tiny and insignificant, swallowed in mere seconds by the omnipresent darkness of this their final battlefield, its furious cry drowned in the clang of sword against sword echoing clear through the air. Rebel though they might in mind and spirit, their immortal bodies have no choice; and the battle continues, until, ultimately, at the last--

Silence has never seemed so ominous.

The Gathering is real.

Unlike any had envisioned--but upon them, large and frightening and final, and undeniably real. Vast, and bloody, and here.

With only two left, the madness has receded, a little. Xenophobia is no longer driven to its utmost extreme within them; and with the slight recession of their compulsive madness, the darkness has lifted also, just enough for recognition to be possible, did they happen to be two who knew each other enough to recognise the features now revealed: and yet the basic compulsion itself is not gone--fight they must, and fight they will, and all the benefit they receive from this lessening of urgency is the opportunity to put their years of training to use against a single, targeted opponent: one last hope that skill and worth might yet prevail.

Years, centuries, millennia of preparation have led toward this battle, and, at the last, the combatants are allowed the use of it. Zombie-like, the final two approach each the other, swords lifted dully in tired hands, and it is only at the last instant that a spark seems to inhabit their bodies, and they spring to life--and battle.

Astonishingly short, this final clash; a flurry of blows, another; and a single figure emerges, whilst his erstwhile opponent drops to the blood-riven ground, headless.

Betrayed at the last, the sole survivor turns his back on the horror he has endured, and stumbles numb towards the world he had left, timeless eons ago--he had never wanted the Prize, this man, had never once considered he might be the One to win it.

Cold comfort that is, now that he knows, truly knows with no room left for hope or doubt, that there isn't one.