Sword Dancing

I looked into the man’s eyes across from me. No words were said, the dancers, myself included entered our trances. A state of awareness that is strongest on the battlefield, the sword in our hands becoming one with our body. As one, we begin the dance.
Left hand to shoulder block, sharp edge down, right foot stepping back. Overhead shoulder slice, step to the side, lift and parry, left foot going back shifting to move the right forward. Back to friend front to foe, slice upward as you complete your turn.
I am in the east position, where my pattern follows specific steps. My conscious thought gone and it was only the dance. My eyes closed trusting the three others to know their position well, as they trusted me.
Block with an upward sweep of my sword, roll it to my left hand, step back with my right foot, thrust forward shifting my weight to my left leg my sword going for an upper lung while my partner’s blade goes for a lower lung. East is always high, west is always low.
I flow with the dance, forward and back turn, duck, slip under, jump over. Our swords coming within a hair’s breadth of our partners. One slip, one moment's loss of concentration, and our partner can be seriously injured.
Egfor’s words, “thank you for showing me I can be loved,” flash through my mind as I feel him reaffirming his love through my ring. I feel my sword touch flesh and drop out of the square, while the healers pull my partner back. It was a throat move, always dangerous and the skin bleeds profusely when nicked. Thankfully it was only a nick.
I had never injured someone since being passed to join the dance. I sat on the ground hard. Thad, my anchor, came to me. He put his arm around my shoulder. I was not coming out of rage but still, it seemed right to me.
“The first injury given is the worst,” Thad says nonpulsed.
“It wasn’t that. Last night Egfor asked for us to commit to each other.” I held up my left hand to show him the ring.
Thad tipped my hand back and forth studying the ring. He doesn’t make jewelry but he has a good eye for such things. He has a box of trinkets he’s collected over the years hoping for the right girl to come along.
“If I were a betting man—”
“When did you stop wagering?”
He flapped his hand laughing, “I haven’t, still I would say that ring was made by elves and put money on it.”
“Aye.”
“So he finally asked?”
“No, he told me he is ready to commit. I think there is a difference, but  I am happy beyond words.”
“Maybe you should wait until the newness wears off.” Thad's always practical. That's why he makes such a good anchor.
“Of course, you are right.” I didn’t tell him I could feel him through the ring, his moods at least and sometimes I thought I heard his words too. I kept this to myself. I would then have to admit he could feel mine. But I don’t care, everything of me is his.