Long had they awaited this day, the time of their fated final duel. Across the follicle forests and fleshy plains, the two had battled for the Right to Prime Blood. For days, they leaped and kicked and speared at one another, neither able to pierce the other’s armor and inflict the decisive blow. They would fight until exhausted, retreat, and sup on the blood of their Great Host from less desirable wells.
Today, however, would be their final clash. Already, they felt the age in their joints. Their legs held less spring. Their armor plate felt a bit looser. Their tusks had dulled. Prime Blood thrummed through the Great Host right beneath their feet, the most delicious well to be had, stirring their hunger to near madness. But they were not the type to share. Only one could claim this well, and only might could determine that right. And their might was already failing in their age.
Even if neither could strike a true killing blow, they would strike and strike and strike, until one or both could no longer move, their life burned away in one last push to prove their dominance. Whoever could still move enough to pierce the skin of the well could die knowing they were the strongest.
If neither could manage the feat, they could be satisfied knowing that there was only one other who could be their equal. In a way, there would be a comfort in that, a companionship. If only such companionship could have been enjoyed in the sharing of a meal, rather than needing to deprive the other of one. If only they had met before finding this most cherished well, perhaps they could have…
But no. Such was not their way. Such was not their fate. They were what they were, and in the end, only the truly strongest deserved the Right. They tensed their legs, ready to spring. They rasped their claws along their great tusks, preparing the dull blades for a final stabbing. They gave one another a final bow of respect, and then—
And then, the Great Host dragged its claws through the patch. Neither warrior was fast enough to evade their Host’s wrath. This, too, was the risk of their way of life. To eek out a living on a world that by its very nature tried daily to destroy them.
The warriors tried to flee, but they were not fast enough. They leaped, but the Great Host’s claw caught them in the air, slashing with such speed and strength as the dash them clear away. The impact rattled and broke their insides, and they were tossed to the alien landscape of false follicles, too far away to see where each other landed.
A final duel, cut short before they could determine who was strongest. As the life fled from their bodies, they contented themselves with the idea that perhaps this was a sign. That the duel had been unnecessary, for they had proved time and again to be one another’s equal. Perhaps, then, this was a lesson. They should have put aside their pride and split the feed. Surely, the well held enough Prime Blood for them both to have enjoyed.
Ah, well. Perhaps, some day, their children, or their children’s children, would overcome the foolishness of their elders. Provided, of course, that the Great Host did not manage to scour them off itself.
The Great Host, meanwhile, shook itself after its vigorous scratching, and went to pester its own Great Hosts for a walk.
