This post is from one of the authors from Insurgent’s creative team, Tim. In this piece, two friends come to blows about how to handle the responsibility that comes with power. If you were put into a similar situation, what would you choose to do? Ask yourself this while reading.
Maxwell! Maxwell! Maxwell!
The mighty warriors chanted their lords name as they stood before the burning fort. The smell of burnt wood filled the air, and the fading sounds of battle spurred him on. Maneuvering his horse through the fort, and bodies that littered the ground. The faces of both his enemies and those of his friends looked up at him, as if starring and asking “Why?” He wished he could tell them, tell them of his grand plans, that their deaths had not been in vain. They were gone now however, and he have to make it up to them through his actions.
As he neared the mansion at the center of the fort, the battle cries, and chanting had begun to cease for him. Whether they had begun to stop on their own, or had blocked them out himself he did not care. His greatest obstacle stood just a few feet before him, behind those doors he would find a way to change his stature, but that is not what he was after. He dismounted his horse and took the sword from his saddlebag and charged up the stairs and through the smoldering doors. A man came at him with his sword raised, the lord cut him down with ease. He pressed forward looking for his old friend.
“Reinfeld!” He called coughing through the smoke.
There was no answer back, but he made his way through, knowing his friend would not have fallen so easily. A flash had caught the lord's attention as he instinctively raised his sword, to parry the blow of his unknown opponent.
“Maxwell.” The weary figure replied, the strain in his face apparent amongst the sweat, soot, and blood. “Why?” He asked. “You are not cut from the same cloth as I, you are not worthy this lead this men! Against me! My splendor! My name and prestige mean more than yours ever did!”
The lord repelled the blade, and thought about what his former friend had said.
“It’s because of these reasons that I am worthy. I never let my name, my wealth, or class carry my weight. I relied on others to bring me here, instead of riding on their weary backs, I walked with them.”
“You dirty peasant!” His foe swung his sword, and the sparks from their clanging swords only added to the flames that swirled around them. Their ideals and former friendship fueling the strength behind their blows. The lord finally found an opening and overpowered his foe, sending him to the hot floor defenseless.
“Why!? Why is a commoner like you able to best me! The very heavens should be on my side!” The weakened man wailed on the floor as the lord stood over him.
“Our friendship meant something to me Reinfeld, but now instead of walking beside you, I shall walk before you.”
The lord raised his sword, heard his men chanting his name again.
Maxwell! Maxwell! Maxwell!
And in a flash, it was over.