The girl stood in her tattered and bloodied dress
Holding up with effort the nicked and scratched sword
To fend off the circling shadows.
They moved about in swirling clouds,
Each bleeding into the other.
Was her ankle snapped?
Were her knees bruised?
Were rivulets of blood running down her?
Yes, yet she stood anyway.
Yes, she was growing weaker
But she put in the effort anyway.
She was failing.
Until a warrior came to help.
He wrapped himself around her,
Straightened her grip,
Stiffened her posture,
And showed her that her "breaking" sword
Was just as shining as when first forged.
He reminded her how she could cut the shadows apart
With the smallest of strikes with the sword.
When he stepped away to let her stand alone again,
She could tell he had no shining silver armor.
This was good.
Whatever battles he'd been in,
He had survived them.
So as the woman in sturdy armor beat back her shadows,
He slipped away to fight his own,
Leaving the tiniest of threads between them
That either could summon help.
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