She backed up.
Her body launched away from him creating distance, giving herself room to think. Her katana was still raised, her blue hair still flowing, her eyes still calm and unreadable. She watched him for a moment, studying his movements, calculating his weaknesses.
Then she kicked him back.
Her foot slammed into his chest pushing him away, throwing him off balance, creating more space between them. He stumbled, his body reeling, his vision swimming. He tried to raise his sword, tried to defend, tried to survive.
She pulled out a smaller blade.
It was hidden in her belt a dagger, short and sharp, its edge gleaming in the storm-light. She held it in her off-hand, her movements fluid, practiced, deadly. She smiled.
And with the blade, she cut off his hand.
SHLIK!
The steel cut through his wrist severing tendons, splitting bone, spraying blood across the deck. His hand flew through the air spinning, tumbling, landing with a wet thud on the wood.
He shouted out loud.
"AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!"
His voice tore from his throat raw, primal, agonized. He saw his hand flying off his fingers still twitching, his palm still grasping at something that was no longer there. He was forced to let go of his sword, his fingers opening, his grip failing.
He felt great pain.
It blazed through his arm, through his body, through his mind. It was a fire that could not be quenched, a torment that could not be ignored. He fell to his knees, his hand clutching the stump of his wrist, his blood pouring through his fingers.
He tried to grab the sword again.
His hand reached for the hilt but he could not grab it. His fingers could not close, his grip could not hold, his body could not obey. The sword lay on the deck, just out of reach, a taunt to his failure.
He could not grab it with that hand again.
So he grabbed it with his other hand.
His fingers wrapped around the hilt his grip weak, uncertain, untrained. He had not trained using his other hand; as such, it would be much weaker in combat. It would be slower, more awkward, more predictable.
He grabbed the sword with the other hand.
in the space between the loss and the survival, between the hand that had been taken and the will that remained.
Rodgers stood on the deck.
His sword was in his other hand.
And the sea roared.