One last time

Draw. Strike. Block. Slash. Dodge. Counter-attack.

It's a familiar ballet.

Slash. Stab. Parry. Duck. Slash. Dodge.

He could do this dance in the dark.

Spin. Block. Slash. Stab. Parry. Slash. Slash.

He could do it with his eyes closed.

Dodge. Counter-attack. Retreat. Block. Slash.

In his sleep.

Strike. Slash. Stab. Parry. Slash. Block. Spin.

In the midst of a starless night with mist or fog further obscuring his vision.

Dash. Turn. Block. Parry. Slash. Dodge. Strike.

With all of his senses turned upside-down and backwards.

Block. Counter-attack. Slash. Slash. Slash. Dodge.

He knows this dance, as does his opponent. His foe, his rival, the one he must beat.

Stab. Strike. Parry. Slash. Dodge. Strike. Retreat.

He will not fall again.

Fall back. Block. Dodge. Strike. Parry. Slash.

He can't lose again. Not this time.

Slash. Dodge. Counter-attack. Retreat. Block. Slash.

This will be the last time they spar. Both can feel it. Each desperately wants to deviate from the pattern. Neither can. This pattern, this well-known dance, is ingrained into their bodies, their minds, their very souls.

Slice. Duck. That was a killing stroke. Run. Retreat.

Each knows what will happen, and when. Both know, down to the tiniest, most insignificant detail.

Dodge. The blows are coming faster now. Run. Slash. Parry. Block. Dodge.

This last time will be no different from the rest. The combatants know this, but still they wish for some way to change the outcome. They know that this will be the last time they ever fight together. Something will soon tear them apart.

Retreat.

The friends- altho that is not the right word, a better would be /soul mates/, very literally- have been together since their master came into being. The younger of the two is always the one who is beaten. He is of a very rare species. The elder's race is as plentiful as the creatures that the friends inhabit, though the subspecies that the elder belongs to is far rarer than any race.

Run. Dodge. Slash. Duck. Retreat.

The dance their bodies follow now is simple. Anyone can learn it. Many have learned. The younger of the two beings longs for their master to mature, so he can do as he was made to. He is lonely here, with his only companion being his exact opposite. He wants to meet more of his own kind.
The older of the pair is also anxious for their master to awaken. He wants their host to become strong, strong enough to be entertaining. Their host is weak now. He has no wish to get stronger. There is something missing, some keystone that must be pushed into place for the companion's fight to start. So for now, they train. They are two consciousnesses in one form, trapped inside their master's mind. In their master's inner world, their form meditates as the two sides battle for supremacy. They know enough to realize that their form, the combination of them, is closer to being two different entities than others of their kind. However, they prefer it like that. It keeps them from going mad from loneliness. They can tell that the time is coming soon. The time when their master will begin to wake.

Thus this one last dance.

They wish for something to break the monotony; In their hearts they know that nothing will change. The elder has given in, resigned himself to fate, to lose his only companion. The younger, eternally defeated in their spars, decides that, since he is going to lose anyways, as the chronology foretells, and since this is their last spar as separate consciousnesses within the same form, he will try something different. Just this once.
The younger turns, raising his blade in a horizontal block, bracing it with his shield hand. His compatriot screeches to a halt as they both stare at each other. The elder being narrows his eyes, his liquid gold irises set on deep inky black, short white hair fluttering in the wind as he strikes with the speed of a serpent.

The younger's chocolate brown eyes also narrow as all of him save his tangled, shoulder length hair manages to dodge the attack. Dark strands whirl in the wind, and the duelists pause their battle for a moment to take in the sudden change in hairstyle.

The now shorter-haired male looks up from where he was examining his unexpectedly severed hair, fingering his blade. Faster than the lightning that often plagues this inner world he strikes, scoring a small wound on the cheek of his opponent and other half.

His partner's eyes widen further, and then suddenly narrow, mouth sliding into a feral grin. The white-haired male disappears.

And reappears behind the younger of the two, wielding his sword in such a way that, had the chocolate haired boy not dodged, would have speared his heart and severed his spine in the same instant. As it was, the younger kept his life, escaping with only a shallow gash across the ribs on his left side.

"How did this happen, Tensa? You were never this good before!"

"It's simple, Shiro. I decided not to lose. After all, 'He who deviates from the pattern ensures a different outcome, be it good or bad.'"

"Heh."

Stab. Slice. Block. Attack. Dodge. Counterattack.

He's doing it. Shiro can't believe it. Tensa is pushing back against his blade, actually forcing the elder of the pair to step back to block the black katana. It is fascinating, how suddenly and completely an epiphany can change someone, but the scientist in him will have to wait. For now he must fight.

Tensa dodges a blow aimed for his midsection, and a second reaching for his neck, baiting his partner into following him. The blows are coming faster now, as Shiro regains his confidence. Too quickly. The younger spirit reached his goal, leaping back one last time to land on a flagpole. He uses the extra hight to leap straight up, rising towards the clouds that for once are not obscuring the sun. Tensa twists his body mid-air, earning himself a bolt of pain as the wound across his ribs reminds him of it's presence. He still manages to complete the maneuver however, and when his blade strikes Shiro's hasty block, sparks fly and the full power of his sword, strength, and the force of gravity bear down on the gold and black eyed boy, bringing the elder to his knees momentarily. It is just long enough for Tensa to push off and land a successful hit on his partner's left arm, the black blade biting deep.

A curse falls from the taller boy's lips as he assesses the severity of the wound.
From there the battle progresses, and Shiro is slowly but surely being beaten back. The length of their spar is telling, however. Both of the spirits are tiring and wounded; neither can last much longer.

The elder lunges forward, the younger desperately twists his body to the side, and the white haired male's maniacal grin falters, morphing into one of shock as he finds himself overextended and vulnerable with his white blade empty of prey. In a split second the younger, dark haired male rams the hilt of his blade into his opponent's ribcage.

Gasping and trying to re-teach his lungs how to expand, the elder of the pair stumbles backwards, his footing for an instant unbalanced.

Tensa takes the chance and unleashes a flurry of blows on his momentarily defenseless and unbalanced opponent, driving back the older male as Shiro is forced to dodge most of the blows, managing to parry only a few, while he is unable to escape gaining a half-dozen shallow scrapes and slashes across his torso.

The younger spirit is moving almost too fast for the elder spirit to see, and certainly he is now moving to fast to react to; it is all Shiro can do to merely dodge killing blows as his sword clatters to the ground, the hand and arm that recently held it hanging limply as his left hand grasps the wound, futilely attempting to staunch the blood pouring from the white haired spirit's broken right arm.

In an instant Tensa's long black katana, now dripping with his opponent's blood, is at the now kneeling golden eyed male's throat.

"Do you surrender?" Tensa's voice is victorious and brimming with excitement. His opponent remains silent for a moment, his head bowed as the elder of the duo's mind races, trying to create a scenario where he would be victorious. He is unsuccessful.

Slowly, Shiro raises his head and responds in a quiet and subdued voice, although there is defiance and a promise for vengeance in his eyes. "Yes," he murmurs, "I do."

A/N

So, this was my first attempt at writing a fight sequence. Would any of you mind reviewing and telling me what I did right or wrong?