∴ A Certain Duology ∴
“It’s your right to choose”, the copper-haired man says, opening the case.
Loathe as you are to show admiration, you cannot repress a low whistle as he pulls back the ivory satin, revealing a pair of slender yet sturdy smallswords with blackened guards and gleaming wire grips. Half-reverently you lift one, then the other, keen to claim the better. At last you glance up, brow furrowed.
“What is there to choose?” you ask. “The swords are equal in every way.”
“I’ll choose then,” the challenger grins. He curls his hand round the copper-wrapped hilt, leaving you its steelier brother.
Shrugging, you take your weapon and step onto the field of honour. As you salute and fall into guard, your opponent effortlessly matches the the grace that you studied for years, mirror-like in his precision. As the bout begins, the similarities grow only more frustrating – every move reflected, every feint forewarned.
You cannot say when it is that frustration gives way to a flurry of excitement. The precise moment when a battle of wills becomes a meeting of minds. You dance with the copper-haired man, daring him to surprise you, even as he draws out moves you never knew you had. You are certain that, standing against one another, neither can be truly victorious.
But together?
You catch your opponent’s eye. His reckless grin is contagious.