Match

“Bring it,” her father smirked,
His teeth flashing white as his blade was drawn.
Her answer was slow,
A grin across her face,
Then fast.
Her leap carried her across the distance between them,
Staff raised above her head.
Crash!
Metal on metal.
The grating of weapons in combat as sword and haft met and parted only to realign.
They were dancers,
Dancing to the harmony of the fight,
Dust rising from around their feet as they spun.
Strike and parry.
Flashes of silver.
Light upon metal,
Flickering like fish just beneath the surface,
Blindingly fast,
The points seeking always.
A spin,
A thrust,
He dodged, cleaving for her neck,
She sidestepped, one side of her haft lifting, blocking the strike
She countered, but he was gone.
Where?
A flash of light!
Up!
Above!
She twisted as he returned to the earth,
Dropping from the heavens with his sword leading.
They met again,
Edge to haft,
Metal shrieking in protest to the song of their bodies
Crack!
He was down,
On his back looking up at the weapon held to his throat,
Then she grinned once more and both were laughing.
She withdrew her staff and extended a hand,
Their chests heaving with the exertions of their bout,
And, grinning, he accepted her offer and rose to his feet.
He smiled proudly and sheathed his blade, then clapped a hand upon her shoulder.
“That’s my little warrior.”