A whirling chain ensnared her neck, her feet were weak, her head was light, her senses scattered as she was yanked off balance, the sickening hard grip of wrapped metal squeezing her throat. As she staggered and half-fell, Seeker lashed out backwards desperately with her sword and was gratified to hear an exclamation of pain from Enigma, her death warrant. 'I'm on my knees,' she realised, and threw herself back with an almighty push from her legs, slamming into the other woman. They both lost balance and rolled in the dust at the roadside. For the first time since the duel began, Seeker believed she might have a chance of winning, the wagon wheel of hope rolling across her diaphragm as the chain around her neck loosened its grip ever so slightly.

Seeker gyrated, throwing herself into the air and coming down hard on Enigma. Then she pushed into a crouching fighter's stance, turned, and looked... into a gaze of pure anger. The kind of anger that sees through a mist of red and recognises only death. Enigma was in a sitting position and, impossibly after the pounding she just took, rising. In her hand was clutched a rock with a grip that shook her fist. In her other was a chain end, being pulled.

As iron once more closed off her windpipe, Seeker fought for breath and fell back from the dark apparition before her until she was dangling by the chain, pivoted on her unmoved feet, legs bent and knees wide in front of her, Enigma between them. Lights danced like blossoming motes. The sound of the sea roared in her ears. Her head shook slowly from side to side uncontrollably, her mouth gaping and gagging. Her vision flickered as she watched the rock-filled hand rising, coming down with sudden extreme force into the centre of her sight. Once. Twice. Everything went black. Thrice. Seeker felt her own face cave in, her thoughts shrinking back in horror, noting through some sick instinct the further blows raining down upon her broken head. Again. Again. Nothing.

*

The rock thudded to the sandy earth, coating itself with dust.

A dreamlike substance was her only air. She breathed the thickness absently as she killed off Seeker with a sense of hazy detachment. The faceless body crumpled at her feet. Bereft of life. Bereft of identity. Not that this made any change. Bereft of identity -- what was that? Nothing. They knew not what it was like to be as her; to live without a destiny, without a goal, with no meaning.

As she stood, limp atop victory, Enigma felt her mouth utter the words. "Death is the only mystery." It was true. The only thing nobody could experiment with, try out as an experience to be studied. Everything else was just a distraction created by the mind, a matter on which to dwell so you could avoid thinking about life and its utter futility. Illusions were easy to create when you had a future, a life's meaning. When you had none, there was no grounding for such distractions.

Enigma sank mechanically to her haunches, her hand searching of its own accord for Seeker's Duelist medallion. Oh, to have a reason for being alive. At first, Enigma considered it a joke -- so what if she had no readable future? Did not each individual fashion their own? Through many long, hard years she learnt differently. A Moonfather she seduced told her a force called The Way -- the why and how of it lost her totally -- governed life, and every living thing had a purpose to its existence. Except her. He laughed then, and asked her what it felt like to be the living exception to prove the rule. Three days later he was dead. Not by her hand, but those of the circle of Moonfathers, who executed him for breaking his vows of celibacy.

The cool metal of her foe's identity nestled in Enigma's hand, snug to her palm, somehow free of any bloodstains. She squeezed it hard for a while, but cold reality would not return, so without looking, she stamped its reverse side with her blank star and continued musing.

A small-town mystic, friend to the Ralieri and frequent trader with them, told her it was quite possible for a being, especially one as capricious as a human, to avoid fulfilling their meaning. Even without knowledge or intention, ignorance combined with stubbornness could lead to them missing the vital opportunity by ignoring their true desires. Dreams, he said, were what guided you on the way; warnings you were not following your meaning, your true calling in life. Only through fulfilment of all desires could a being ever experience true happiness. Enigma never had dreams, but neither was she happy.

Over the years that followed, she became adept at recognising people not in tune with their roles. They were usually taciturn individuals, going through life like mindless golems, spreading their dissatisfaction. They sniped and complained, seemingly never realising it was their own unwillingness to follow their hearts' desires that caused their affliction.

Enigma felt her mouth twist into a sneer. She hated them. How could they not see the precious gift they so glibly wasted? In the broad community of duelists, some were exactly where they should be. Hardened killers, The Way guided them to the exact life they suited. Those people, she respected, and fought only when they gave her no choice. Others, though, duelled because, for no good reason, they were too stubborn to avoid it. Such people, trapped as outcasts, unwillingly violent or -- worse -- violent for pleasure, needed saving from themselves.

The chain was the best tool for that, and Enigma wielded it with precision and an utter lack of mercy. When your life has no meaning, you have to stick to the one you choose.

She chuckled suddenly at the irony of her existence -- increasing the world's happiness by killing people, most of whom were ignorant of their own crime. She slipped the newly acquired medallion into her pack. A gust of gritty wind whipped her hair into a lighter colour and made her mysterious eyes run. Real life gave her a slap in the face.

"I'm back," she mumbled, rising to her feet.

A piece of meat was left by the roadside. A broken dream wandered away.