He knows himself, of course, his strengths and his weaknesses, but he’s never looked at himself outside of the limitations of a reflection. He has no advantage here – not in speed, not in agility, not in powers. They are the same. His eyes meet the not-Brennen’s, gold to gold, and he wonders at the calculation in them. He hopes that that look is not the one he holds when he is not battling.
Unsurprisingly, they move at the same time; taking to the sky in a flurry of wings and a rush of wind. They spiral into the blue, paths entwined, evaluating. It is the real Brennen who moves first, angling himself to collide with not-Brennen, teeth bared as he reaches for his opponent’s right wing. He wants to tear feathers – the big ones, pin feathers, could send not-Brennen tumbling out of control. Even as they collide, and he snaps his teeth closed (successful or not), the real Brennen folds his wings and drops away.
The not-Brennen has pinned his ears and ducked his head towards his chest, taking it out of the line of fire. Even as the real Brennen snaps teeth at his right wing, not-Brennen lashes out at the real Brennen’s exposed head, a feral sound escaping his lips when he feels feathers ripped from his wing, even as he feels his hooves collide with something – not the real Brennen’s head, as that is too far forward, but his withers just before he drops away. Real Brennen is bleeding as he drops, but it’s not serious. Not-Brennen is missing several feathers – but not enough that he can’t compensate with control of the wind itself.