There is little I can do but watch as the titans clash again.  Their swords ring loud, sparks fly into the air then drop forlornly to the ground.  Heated breath quickens, sinews creak and groan as muscles strain to deliver the fatal blow.  Blood showers skin and armor, droplets fall to sate the thirsty soil underfoot. Dust clouds rise as does the smell of blood, sweat, and tears.  Those who gather round remain silent.  Fearful perhaps, or is it awe in the ability of the mighty titans who clash in the center of an ancient ring.  Upon occasion one or another spectator calls out, but quickly falls silent as blades meet again.  The creak of leather breaks the monotonous sound of metal against metal.  A groan of strain breaks free from one or the other, but is quickly smothered as brows are drawn in intense concentration.

 There is little I can do, my friend.  The battle is as old as man.  Fight a good fight, refuse to give quarter, and hope the sword finds its berth in the heart of the opponent.  Sadness weighs the soul down, quickens the heart of those who weep silently.  Would that the mighty titans would stop for a moment, take a deep breath, and think back to a time when misunderstandings could be erased with talk taken over a fine mug of ale.  A handshake would mark the word and understanding, more endearing and final than any barrister's twisted pact. 

Would that we were there again.  Turn away, my friends, before the destruction wrenches the heart from us all, those who knew and revered the mighty titans.