“The pen is mightier than the sword.”
The fire burned intensely; gnarly oak logs glowed in the brass fire pit as they illuminated the engulfing darkness. Woodrow and Attila pierced each other’s gaze as their argument raged on through the chilly night. Attila tried daunting his intellectual foe with a stare sharper than the tip of any lance, but Woodrow’s eyes and mind were locked on the blazing flame before him. Attila felt a tinge of uncertainty he had never experienced before.
“If your pen is so mighty, come here and use it to slice my head from my shoulders.” Attila scrutinized Woodrow as he kept his gaze calmly fixed on the fire.
“My pen could do no such thing; that jest is not my tool’s aim.”
“Than what, Woodrow, is the purpose of your pen?”
“Your war – violence – only causes fear. A swing of your sword is nothing more than food for the societal beast you seek to destroy. You think your idea of what the world should be is superior; you are the only tyrant holding yourself back!”
“Nothing holds me back! I could end your world right now!” Attila surged to his feet, ripped his broadsword from his scabbard, struck the metal pit like an executioner dropping the axe, and bellowed a grunt that would have made Hades cry. Sparks filled a black sky and the flames jumped, singeing the hairs of Attila’s beard. Woodrow remained undaunted.
“Your world is the only one that will end. This pen has given me immortality, Attila. Strike me down today and my words will live on even after you are nothing more than rotting muck. You see, with a stab of my pen one is stricken with passion, with emotion, with thought! This pen will inspire people to see beyond you – what you stand for – until man ceases to exist.”