His eyes were intense, a hypnotizing swirl of sea-green tightly focused on her own gray eyes. Riptide was by his side, the bronze catching the sunlight.
"Ready?" he whispered.
She nodded, unable to speak, and drew her own sword. The dragon bone was dull next to his sword, and didn't yet feel like a part of her. But she knew that after this, the sword would become a part of her.
The sword tips were raised by their respectable owners, hovering at eye level to lightly touch the other tip. Slowly, cautiously, they moved in a circle, eyes never leaving each other.
She made the first strike, a cut to the left flank. He blocked it, his sword slithering between his body and the strike, a flash of bronze neatly turning her point away from him. Then he struck, a jab to the stomach that she avoided with a twist.
Swordfighting was an art. The weapon was no longer a separate object from its master but an extension of the arm. It was a dance, light feet drifting across the arena, swirling colors as blades clashed.
They spun in a circle, twisted and turning, never losing eye contact. Their swords embraced each other, touching bone to metal. The world around them blurred and shifted as they danced their way to an ethereal place between realities. There was no more intimate way of expressing themselves: the love was clear in the swift movements of the blades.
He broke away, stepping back gracefully and twisting, his blade flying in a deadly arc as it sheared off the tops of flowers and plants that populated the meadow. The heads, neatly severed from their bodies, drifted in the wind. He reached out and picked one from the air, the purple-petaled head of some flower.
"Here." She took it and ran her fingers over the silky soft petals.
"You're like me now. You're a swordfighter."
