Shorts: A friendly Holmgang

Part of the shorts series. Shorts are short one off stories done by request of the person generally in the story. Meaning, they will be self contained even if they have characters from other stories. Good for when you are looking for a quick fight that won't hurt your eyes reading for a long time. 

The two had known each other for years. They trained side by side through countless sessions, pushing each other on the heavy bags, spotting each other in the weight room, trading jabs during sparring rounds, and offering quiet encouragement before real fights. No matter what happened, they had each others back in and outside the ring. Brothers you could call them. Not by blood, but by choice. In the world of boxing, or any fighting sport really, where rivalry could turn bitter, their bond was different. It was built on trust, sweat, and a shared respect for the grind. So when the idea of facing off finally came up, it wasn’t born from ego or any need to prove who was better. It was more like checking in with an old friend, seeing how far they’d both come, testing themselves the way only two people who truly knew each other could. The day it happened, there was no big announcement, no flyers, no hype. Just a mutual nod, it was of quiet understanding. They each laced up their gloves without a word, stepped into the ring, and met in the center, calm, focused, and smiling just a little.

The "official" bell was a timer app running on someone’s cracked phone, resting on a bench outside the ropes. The crowd was whoever happened to be in the gym that day. Some guys mid-set on the bench press, a couple trainers on break shooting the shit over water, a handful of regulars who knew this wasn’t something to miss. No one yelled, they didn't have too. No one called out odds, it wasn't that kind of fight anyways. There was just a low hum of anticipation, knowing it would be a good male time. More importantly, there was no bad blood in the air. Just the heat of the gym, the sound of gloves tightening, and the quiet kind of energy that comes from two men about to share a fight, not to hurt each other, but to honor each other.

Kevin stepped out of his corner with quiet focus and steady purpose. His gloves were up, his stance compact, balanced, every movement controlled. Despite the visible tension across his shoulders, his feet moved light and smooth, the way only years of training could teach. Well training and more blows to the head that was probably safe and proper. But eh, details! His chest rose and fell with measured breath, a light sheen of sweat already coating his skin from the warmup. Patches of dark hair clung to his torso, across his chest, down his stomach, catching the overhead lights with each shift. Across the ring, Mac stepped forward like a warhorse answering a call. Broad, solid, every step grounded in weight and intention. Where Kevin moved like water, Mac moved like stone, anchored, built for impact. There was power in his build, something unmistakably Nordic in the way he carried himself, all bulk and grit and a storm behind the eyes.

Then came the bell. A tinny, a low-quality sound file echoing from the before mentioned phone on the nearby bench. It was crap, but it did the job. The room hushed. Gloves tightened. Eyes locked. And the first breath of the round began.

Kevin struck first, a sharp, quick jab that snapped through the air and grazed Mac’s cheek with precision. It wasn’t meant to hurt, just to test range, to announce that the dance had begun. Mac barely flinched. Instead, he grinned, as if to say that all you got? He then answered with a heavy hook that came low and fast. Kevin twisted with it, absorbing the impact with a grunt, his body rolling with the force like a seasoned pro. Without hesitation, Kevin countered. He dipped and slipped inside Mac’s reach, letting off a shot to the ribs, leather thudding against flesh. It smacked with purpose, it smacked with weight behind it. Mac responded with a stiff jab, not to the face, but square to Kevin’s upper chest, pushing him back a half step. The two circled, gloves up, breath steady but heavy. Kevin threw another jab, this one low, tagging Mac’s side near the obliques. Mac took it, reset, and came forward again with a textbook cross that thudded into Kevin’s shoulder, jarring him. A right from Kevin struck Mac just beneath the pec, a place that stung more than it looked. Mac returned fire with a double-tap, one glancing off Kevin’s side, the next clipping the top of his stomach. Kevin hissed through clenched teeth, but stayed upright, eyes locked in. A blow, a short but quick jab to the nose connected forcing Mac's face to distort. A clean hook, forced Kevin's head to snap to the side.

It wasn’t violent for the sake of blood, it wasn’t even reckless. This was calculated, practiced fighting, two veterans trading knowledge with their fists. Every hit was an answer, every motion an offer returned. The sound of leather meeting skin echoed off the gym walls in steady rhythm, like a conversation in another language. They were evenly matched so far, neither dominating, neither faltering. Just two friends testing each other, punch for punch.

The first round passed just like that. Tight exchanges that gave up no ground, footwork that danced and dodged, testing range and reach. Kevin and Mac had trained together for years, they bled together on gym mats, ran drills shoulder-to-shoulder, spent endless hours watching tapes, studying fights and rhythms. In some ways, they knew each other just as well as they knew their own body. Every time Kevin dropped his left shoulder to bait a body shot, Mac read it instantly and pivoted away. Every time Mac dipped low for an uppercut, Kevin’s guard shifted down just in time. It was like a chess match with violence, one bluff after another, parried before it even finished forming. Kevin feinted a jab high, Mac didn’t bite. Mac flicked a low hook, Kevin blocked it like he saw it in a dream. Sweat already slicked both of them, not from exhaustion, but from the tension. From thinking. Reading. Anticipating. Each man hunting for a moment, one mistake, to break through. The moment that would change the theme...

The next round played out like a dance choreographed over years, fluid, competitive, familiar. Neither man gave an inch. Jab for jab, chest and ribs taking the brunt of the action. Each hit earned, each step measured. The crowd, such as it was, had settled into a quiet awe, watching not a brawl, but a masterclass. The round after brought more of the same. Sweat glistened now, trickling down muscle and mat alike. Their breathing deepened, bodies beginning to feel the toll, but still they pressed on, Kevin’s speed darting in and out, Mac’s power answering with weight and timing. Hooks met ribs, straights tagged heads, and both men bore the marks, red flushes blooming across skin like war paint.

But in round four, the rhythm finally cracked.

It wasn’t dramatic, like some slow motion scene you would see in the movies. It wasn’t a mistake due to footwork or dropped hands. It was just a moment, that came a half-beat too slow. Something that could happen to a new raw boy or seasoned pro man. Mac stepped in to deliver one of his signature crosses, the kind that could push a man halfway across the ring. But his timing faltered, just slightly. Maybe fatigue? Maybe overconfidence? Maybe just fate. Either way, Kevin saw it. In an instant, he slipped outside the punch, pivoting on the ball of his foot with trained grace. His body twisted, hips coiling tight, and before Mac could reset? Kevin drove in. Hard, fast, with purpose. His glove shot up, fast, clean, cutting between Mac’s gloves. Not to the head, but a high feint, just enough to make Mac bite. Instinctively, Mac’s guard lifted, his hands separating just a bit. And that’s when Kevin struck.

 

A brutal shot to the body that was deep and deliberate. It slammed into Mac’s exposed midsection, just under the ribs. The sound of leather thudding against flesh echoed louder than before. Mac's eyes flinched, his breath catching as the impact sank in. For the first time in the match, the balance tipped.

CRACK!

A sharp right hook landed soon after, across Mac’s jaw. Mac’s head snapped sideways, and his feet stumbled back a step. More punches came, meeting glove and guard. Mac looked rattled, he was trying to reset himself. Take back control. Kevin looked hungry, eager for another hit. He faked a blow to the body, Mac went for it, not thinking for but a moment-

POP!

Jab to the nose. Mac cursed.

WHACK!

Right to the cheekbone. Mac cursed more...

Mac tried to reset again, but Kevin stayed on him. He was in the zone, and he was not eager to leave it. He threw quick punches, strong and tight. His gloves snapped into Mac’s face again, and again. Sweat sprayed from Mac’s face, catching the overhead lights like glitter as Kevin’s gloves found their mark.

Crack. Snap. Pop.

Kevin’s focus sharpened. His shoulders rolled with the rhythm. He was in it now, completely locked in. Mac covered up and weathered the storm, gloves tight to his face, backing away under pressure. Kevin didn’t land anything devastating now, but the accumulation was real. He had momentum. He could win this by death by a thousand cuts if he just kept pushing... and he would keep pushing, keep going. But, that's not to say Mac would just sit back and take it. The powerful skilled shots to the face had rattled him, sure, but the man was a professional, and more than that, he was proud. Kevin’s flurry had forced him back, but now Mac planted his feet and began to respond. He tightened his guard, chin tucked, eyes locked in. Kevin threw a jab, Mac blocked it. Kevin went high again, Mac ducked under and fired a counter left to the ribs. Kevin dodged, but barely. Both guards would absorb hits like thunder, echoing off the walls like battle cries.

The fight had shifted from chess to war.

Kevin stayed aggressive, weaving in and out, pushing the pace. He threw combos, some caught gloves, others slid through. One, two, three punches landed with a grunt to Mac’s body.

Thud. Whap. Thump.

Kevin’s right hook sank into Mac’s stomach. Mac flinched. His arms dipped slightly as the pain registered. Kevin noticed and kept pressing.

BAM!

Another shot to the gut. Mac exhaled sharply through his mouthguard, eyes narrowing. Kevin danced around Mac’s jab, twisted his body and launched a low shot to the stomach. The glove landed with a loud, echoing thud, the kind of hit that would have sucked the breath from a lesser man. Kevin, shifted again, working high-low, going for the head, then sinking punches into Mac’s core. He pressed everything into his attack and it was having a noticeable effect, but it was costing him. With every punch, his shoulders dipped a little lower. His footwork slowed. His breathing got heavier. Still, he threw leather like a man possessed. Mac blocked a head shot, then caught Kevin’s left glove in his own, holding it a second too long. It was enough to remind Kevin, that Mac was still in there, still in the game. Still dangerous. Kevin, undeterred, jabbed again. Then slammed a left hook just above Mac’s waistband.

WHUMP.

Mac’s core rippled under the impact., his body recoiling from the force. Mac stepped in close, clinching Kevin for but a moments relief.

A phone buzzed, a recreation of a bell rang, the round was over.

Kevin returned to his corner, not walking but dragging. He leaned back against the ropes instead of sitting, arms hooked over the top cable, sweat cascading down his neck, chest, and stomach. His hair clung to his forehead. His gloves drooped in his lap like dead weight. He made real headway, scoring more hits than he could count.

But he was burning out.

Across the ring, Mac sat calm but focused. Breathing hard, sure, but nothing like Kevin. His chest rose and fell with control. His shoulders glistened with sweat, but his eyes were sharp. He weathered the storm, he took the hits and was re-calibrating. Now would be the time of his come back. And Kevin, hands still shaking, chest hitching with every breath, looked like a man who knew the second half of this fight would be something else entirely.

The bell rang... it was go time once more.

Kevin surged out of his corner like it was Round One again, like his body didn’t ache and his lungs weren’t on fire. He’d told himself during the break, lied to himself, one clean shot, just one more, and it’s over.

Mac stepped forward, gloves up, measured. Kevin coiled and launched a right cross from hell meant to end it.

WHOOSH.

It missed by so little a distance, so insignificant a distance. But in this sport? In a fight, a inch might as well be a mile. Mac slipped to the side like he knew it was coming. Kevin stumbled forward with the momentum, feet unsteady. That was all the opening Mac needed. The counter came hard and fast, fueled by the need to provide some well meaning, even brotherly payback. 

 

CRACK!

Left hook to the jaw. Kevin’s head snapped sideways.

WHAP!

Right hand across the temple. Kevin staggered.

Mac moved like a machine now, no hesitation, no concern for his own bodily safety. Every inch of uncertainty from the earlier rounds was gone. Mac found his rhythm, his moment, and he was taking the fight back.

THUMP!

Hook to the ribs.

BAM!

Right uppercut under the guard.

Kevin tried to block, gloves swatting at air, catching some of the hits, but not enough. Not the ones that mattered. Then came the shot. Mac twisted, drove his hips, and launched a short, brutal hook to Kevin’s stomach. A perfect punch. Nothing flashy. Just power and precision.

BOOM.

It landed just below the sternum, dead center. The glove sank in like it was punching through water. Kevin’s entire body folded. His arms dropped, his mouth opened, a soundless gasp escaped, as the air rushed from his lungs. Time slowed. Sweat burst from his back and chest in a sudden mist. His legs buckled. His eyes went wide, blinking, searching for something that wasn’t there. Around the ring, the men from the gym watching stiffened in silence. No more shouting. No more pounding on the apron. Just a quiet, collective understanding:

That punch had just decided the fight.

Kevin didn’t go down, not yet. But the damage was done. His body stayed upright, but it was only muscle memory keeping him there. His core was broken. His timing shattered. Whatever advantage he carved out in the early rounds had been taken back, and buried. Mac didn't hesitate, Kevin wouldn't have either. He took a slow step forward, shoulders rising, gloves curling. A jab to the head, a hook to the head, several more jabs to the head, Mac was laying it on thick now, as he absolutely should have. Kevin stumbled backward, chest heaving, mouth wide open but no breath coming. His back hit the turnbuckle with a dull thump, and the ropes stretched behind him, holding up a body that had nothing left to stand with. He sagged there, arms half-lifted, gloves twitching near his chest. His legs were deadweight. His mouth hung open, blood-tinged spit trailing from his lip. The sweat-soaked hair on his chest clung to his bruised skin, rising and falling with every shallow breath. If this had been a sanctioned match, the ref would’ve stepped in already.

Called it. Protected him.

But this wasn’t that kind of fight. This was something older. Simpler. Two men. One ring. And only a fall would end it. Mac knew it. Kevin knew it, and Kevin wouldn't move, he wouldn't even flinch. It was the end and he would take it like a man. 

 

WHUMP.

The first punch landed to the ribs, and Kevin let out a choked grunt, body convulsing.

 

 

THUD.

Then came a right to the stomach, sweat flew.

BAM!

A left to the chest flattening the muscle, leaving a red print across Kevin’s upper body.

CRACK.

Then an uppercut to the jaw, Kevin’s head snapped back, caught by the top rope.

Kevin's gloves dropped a few more inches, his body sagging. Mac didn’t stop, wouldn't stop. No, Mac wasn’t wild. He wasn’t showboating. He was finishing the job. Mac worked the ribs again, then the opposite side. Then a left hook to the cheek, sweat and spit flying off Kevin’s face in a slow arc.

Kevin moaned, barely audible.

His body twitched with every impact, absorbing punishment like a bag of meat hung from chains. A right hook slammed into Kevin’s ribs, making his torso lurch sideways. Before he could recover, a left buried into his obliques, drawing a raw grunt from his throat. Another right, this time higher, crashed into his chest, rattling his breath. Kevin’s legs shook beneath him, struggling to hold his weight as Mac bore down. A quick one-two combo landed square to his stomach, each shot sinking in deep, drawing another pained twitch from his core. Mac didn’t yell, didn’t sneer. He just kept working, disciplined and focused, each hit a punctuation mark in a brutal rhythm. Kevin's chest trembled. A straight jab cracked against it again, knocking sweat loose in a fine mist. Then came an uppercut low to the gut, folding Kevin forward slightly, but still not enough to drop him. Mac pivoted and planted another hook into Kevin’s side, the sound echoing like a hammer on wet leather. Kevin's eyes were glassy now, barely tracking. A right cross snapped Kevin’s head to the side, sweat flying in a sharp arc under the gym lights. Kevin’s gloves twitched, trying to rise, but Mac was already there with a sharp left hook to the opposite side, just enough to ring his ears and shake his focus. Then came a quick jab, stiff and direct, thudding into the space between Kevin’s brows. Mac circled a half-step and delivered another cross, this one catching the temple with glancing precision. Kevin’s body sagged deeper into the ropes.

A short uppercut followed, tight, and rising just under the chin, enough to pop Kevin’s head back and knock his mouthguard halfway out of place. Mac took a breath, measured him again, and fired one final hook across the jaw. Kevin’s head whipped with the blow, the deed was done.

And so, then Mac stopped.

He took one long look at the broken man sagging in front of him, barely breathing, barely upright, and stepped back.

Gave him space.

Gave him the moment.

Kevin’s body began to slide. His arms dropped fully. His knees gave out.

He crumpled forward off the ropes and collapsed to the canvas like a toppled tree. Flat on his side. One glove over his stomach, the other bent under his chest. He didn’t speak. Didn’t try to rise. The room was quiet. Heavy. Not because the ending was a surprise, but because it felt final. Mac stood over him, not gloating, just breathing. Just watching the result of what had to be done. Kevin had fought like hell. But in the end, he'd been properly, fully defeated.

The match was over, and there was a clear undisputed winner.

Now, this was the part where people expected things to fall apart, and honestly? A few of the make shift abundance members that day wouldn't be surprised if it did. They would have assumed this was the part in every story where the fight spills over. Where pride festers into grudge, and silence turns to resentment. Where two friends become hated rivals for life, never looking each other in the eye again. Never having the respect again. That, well no, that kind of ending was for lesser men. Kevin wasn’t one of them, and neither was Mac.

An hour (or so) later, they were both heading to the locker room, fist bumping and laughing like they just had the time of their lives. Kevin had already lost one glove somewhere, he wasn't really sure but wasn't really concerned either. The both sported marks that would take a week to heal, but wore them with pride and amusement. After a quick strip, and a few moments later, they were both sitting side by side in an ice bath, bruised and battered, their bodies steaming against the chill. Kevin had one arm draped along the back of the tub, eyes closed, breathing slow. Mac sat with his usual stillness, arms folded over his chest, jaw resting on the edge, knuckles scratched and swollen. Neither spoke for a while. No one needed to. All that remained was the ache in their muscles and the fading heat of adrenaline giving way to exhaustion. Kevin finally opened his eyes, shifted, wincing as his ribs protested.

“Good job, jerk” he muttered, voice rough but steady and amused.

Mac looked over, smiled and flipped the finger.

Kevin smirked faintly. “Oh you know the next one’s mine.”

Mac didn’t argue. Just gave a small nod and said, “Sure thing pug, what eveeeeer you say.”

A pause. A laugh from both.

“But you’re still paying for beers tonight.”

Kevin let out a low, pained laugh that cracked into a cough. There was no venom in the air. No unfinished business. They were brother after all, before and after the ring. They’d gone to war, not out of hatred, but to test themselves. To find the edge. To sharpen each other. And when the final blow landed, that test was done. No grudge. No need for drama or bullshit. No, because this, this, was how it was supposed to be. Men fought. They gave it everything, put everything on the line, and then it was over. What remained wasn’t anger. It was respect..... and maybe a few bruises.

Socials/Tip Jar: linktr.ee/TheCelticFire