The war would be over before it began,

as greedy kings chose their strongest man.

Their long walk was spent with sorrow, repent,

as both men kept wishing they weren't the ones sent.

The youngest one hopelessly wanted to run.

The oldest kept telling him, ''finish it, son''.

They circled each other, sharp swords at their sides.

The thick air around them stank with demise.

The sweat from their foreheads burned in their eyes,

knowing one had to fall for the other to rise.

''I can't to it, father'', ''It's me or us all''

A soft smile was shared as both let their swords fall.

The war was over as the battle began,

since two traitors took one fatal stand.

Leaving the selfish, unimpaired majesties

alone in a single of history's tragedies.

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