Work Text:
Acheron certainly doesn’t remember how she ends up here. Over and over. The sheer serenity of the ambient, however, seems to be all-too-familiar in many ways. Feels like home, even.
She lets the pleasant feeling wash over her like a soothing rain.
Raiden Mei, yet another familiar fragment of the endless memory puzzle, stands before Acheron, pointing her mighty tachi at her.
Ah, the sparring session. These she remembers, and cherishes.
All three of them do.
"By all means," Ei closes her eyes. "Entertain me. Again."
"Want to join us?" Mei invites.
Naturally, silence. Even with Miko prevailing in her antics of teaching the Archon modern life, Ei occasionally withdraws back here to meditate for extended periods of time. Regardless, it has never been a problem for Miko to find her ways to deliver amusement—the two dimensional drifters just so happen to be the perfect match.
Acheron puts her omamori gift back into her sleeve. "Let us proceed then." Smooth as silk, she draws her odachi from behind her back, allowing it out of its scabbard.
The stillness of the Plane of Euthymia grows charged.
For Thunders are manifested here.
Countless strikes—fluid and brisk, continual torrents of electricity—are dodged and parried. Blow after blow. Stance against stance.
It’s the very place that can sustain the absolute power of their Lightning unleashed. So it becomes a sanctuary, because, despite all the infinite galactic turmoil, the vast universe can get utterly, utterly…boring.
Lonely, too.
Acquainting one another with their prowess like this is the kintsugi for their scarred souls.
Samurais’ solace.
A bright flash adorns the Plane as Mei jolts; yet Acheron tracks the bolt of electricity snaking around and towards her with ease. From their collective routine she recalls Mei’s style to be reliant on pure speed and rapid attacks—nothing Acheron can’t foresee when she’s staunch herself, well-calculated in her overwhelming blows that are instantaneous to deluge its victims.
Sword ready, Acheron is unbothered and precise in her upcoming strike. Theatrics.
Mei manoeuvres once more and emerges behind her at a distance.
The tempo of the masterful exchange culminates.
Acheron’s next turn and strike are so quick, it is little to impossible to predict nor react. For anyone but another incarnation of Lightning she’s against.
Mei faces the heavy, wide wave of electric force launched at her deflecting it upwards, steel resonating with some of its power absorbed. It completely stills her, then; she smiles, pleased.
A change of pace. Diminuendo.
She nods at Acheron, welcoming; they are to simply cross their blades now.
They are careful with each other like this—never the enemy.
Almost gentle. Melodic.
Flowing like water.
Clank. Clink.
Acheron’s sword unsheathed; sheathed. Restrained.
Clink.
Ei’s senses tingle as she follows the rhythm of the skirmish. Each second felt, every sound recognised. Hand movements predicted, the slightest cues noticed. Another anomaly in her Eternity, perhaps, but she doesn’t itch to fight. It merely brings her joy: both being able to witness her Equals and, as a bladesmith, getting to know the other divine blades like this.
Clink.
She joins the ceasing clash mentally—planning ahead for the future encounters—meeting their swords with her graceful naginata in the dialogue conducted by their blades alone.
Miko knew what she was doing granting them this delight.
Metallic noise becomes static.
Soft chuckles follow.
The Plane’s sky, too, turns a soothing shade of violet.
"And for our next time, Ei," Acheron suggests, noticing her content. "Even if you lose…Fret not, I shall forget it right away." She deadpans.
Sigh. O she will join them.