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Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
He cuts the koiguchi, a quick press of the thumb severing the connection between the saya and his blade, readying himself for attack.
Breathe out.
The next beat, a step out of seiza, into a one-legged kneel. His sword is drawn in the next breath, hand pulled back on his saya, carefully moving it out of the way. The blade sits parallel to the ground before it is wrenched over his head, his other hand coming to meet the tsuka as he steps up, knees bent before dropping back down again, slicing through air.
To his left he hears movement, ears prickling to catch any sign of danger.
He smiles and shuts his eyes when the sound abates, only a pleased sign and the quiet murmur of a second heart accompanying his own biological drumbeat.
Yes. No danger here.
Breathe in.
His kissaki flies through the air, twirling with him as he steps out with his right foot then left then right foot again, turning fast as the blink of an eye. The ground beneath him crunches and the heel of his boot strikes the dirt, settling himself in a deep kneeling position, eyes opening to focus on the landscape before him.
It is quiet. He doesn't remember when he has ever felt this much peace within himself. Always something in the way. A monster of his own creation. It's nice. He likes it better like this. For once, he has time, cracks filling in gold as slow as an eternity for each and every tiny part of himself that had once been torn asunder. He supposes that he has a few people to thank for that.
Breathe out.
The blade is raised high over his head, striking an imposing image, pointed in front of him as if he were about to strike. And indeed he does.
Breathe in.
His knee turns inwards, sword dropped as quickly as it was raised, turning the steel at once out and upwards to strike at his enemy. He walks forward in a mirror image of his prior movements, mimicking the cut on his other side. Another drop cut, then, lunging forward to close distance.
Breathe out.
Sometimes it has been too quiet. Sometimes not quiet enough. Although he can't say he doesn't appreciate the company, not that he would admit that...with words at least.
But by far it is at its worst when he is asleep, or at least trying to be.
When the night, or whatever passes for night here, settles over the both of them, nothing but their coats and each other for warmth in the barren landscape, he is always last to fall under. Images that he cannot bear to relive haunt him, like he hasn't tortured himself enough. They leap through his mind as if he were in a storm, wind whipping him with sounds and feelings he wishes never to experience again. A few times, he has woken up shaking like a leaf. One, very, very embarrassing time, which of course he had woken up for, he had even lost control of his facilities. They do not speak of this.
Breathe in.
The physical touch does soothe him, that rough skin and rougher hands. Shared whispers in the dark. He looks different now. His hair is different now, better perhaps, more fitting for his current, more wizened look. It has grown long over the course of their stay as he has refused any help in the form of a quick slice from his blade. He finds that what he usually would find unkempt and lazy doesn’t really bother him now; he likes his brother's new look, it’s…pretty.
He loves the promise that someone strong is there to lean on. Of course, Inside he hates how vulnerable it makes him feel, like a sickening sludge of incompetence that threatens to choke him with black vile. But learning to deal with his own shortcomings has been much easier with him around, with a promise of an actual future. If only the growing pains weren't so terrible.
Breathe out.
He spins once more, blade singing as it cuts through empty space once again. Nothing makes him feel right quite like hearing that sound: cold air on colder steel.
Then again he hears it on that grand drop, bending his knees as he steps, steps again, and thrusts. The tsuki impaled before him, penetrating deep as expected.
Breathe in.
He doesn't think about his son. Or the tower, or...or everything. He tries not to. The guilt will consume him if he lets it and he doesn't intend for it to. He's come too far, sacrificed too much, to let it win now.
But perhaps, when again they meet. When he can gaze upon that face so familiar, browline heavy and look so scathing he may as well be eye-to-eye with a mirror, he could tell him…
No. It's not good enough. Nothing will ever be good enough and really he just needs to accept that, no matter what his pestering twin brother has to say. It's best if he just...
Breathe out.
He spins again, thoughts scattered as he turns. His hand meets the mouth of his saya, holding it in place before he releases it, raising his blade over his head, dropping it in two diagonal cuts in quick succession, foot out and in. Another drop cut before spinning around, dropping finally back into his one-legged kneel.
Breathe in.
The battle is helpful, both against his brother and all the ignoble denizens of this damned place that has become their temporary home. Really it's the swing of his blade that grounds him, calling to him like he was born to do just that. He supposes that that isn't too far from the truth.
The blood, the ether here, seeping into his every pour, it is a feast for a devil like him, feeding him with its sanguine ritual.
It's hard to not feel inherently evil. Not when you're born like this, molded into this horrible body with hands bent on destruction and eyes that gaze only ever in malice. Softness comes as fleeting moments, heart too guarded to let anything in.
He is an expert at killing his emotions, of course, better to nullify then encourage. One has to be with a soul like this.
To have someone so like him...it is inconceivable and terribly inconvenient.
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
Hand raised above his head. Fingers just grazing his temple.
Breathe out.
O-chiburi. A final swish of the blade through air. Decisive. His noto is quick and elegant but not without flourish. He strives to have a good eye for detail, after all. With a flash and a spark, the tsuka mates once again with the mouth of his scabbard.
He rises.
"Damn, Vergil. That was even nicer than the last one. How often do you practice that little dance routine of yours?" Vergil turns to see his twin with a dopey grin on his face, enjoying the show with that annoying air of contentment that always seems to leave the hair on the back of his neck standing on end and a hot feeling in his stomach.
"It is *not* a dance routine, Dante. It is a technique for training, something you may want to try to help with your lacking appreciation for form and efficiency."
"Mmm, is that right? Well this inefficient, formless guy over here," he sticks a thumb at himself, "is winning in our little competition. One-oh-five to one-oh-four if I remember correctly," Dante grinned and huffed a laugh, stretching and yawning as he collected himself for the day. Vergil turned away as he heard him mutter something about being 'too old for this stupid hard ass sleeping-on-the-ground bullshit.'
He wasn't exactly wrong, was the irritating thing. And he's sure if he hadn't crossed swords with him earlier at the mention of it, he would have brought up his defeat at the hands of his son as well, although he had deserved that completely. Vergil casts it out of his mind.
Breathe in.
"Guess I'll just have to even the score then."
Vergil cuts the koiguchi.
Breathe out.