Aziraphale got his sword up and countered the attack--barely; metal screeched in protest as Kira's blade slid along his own until the hilts met. It slashed the left sleeve of his shirt and grazed his biceps, spotting the fine fabric slightly.

"First blood," he observed, a little breathlessly. Their faces were scant inches apart, and what he saw flickering in Kira's eyes was mildly disturbing. Or maybe it wasn't so much Kira as his own memories. The ones involving Crowley weren't so bad, but there were the others, of countless human bloodbaths he'd witnessed, those chaotic melees in which he'd been forced to pick up a sword to defend himself (always, always to defend;) and further back but still all too vivid, the Rebellion and the Fall that had stained the Silver City crimson.

He shoved Kira off and began to circle warily, testing his defenses here and there--trying to keep things interesting without letting them get out of hand. To his annoyance, his body was already feeling the strain of this unaccustomed exertion. Though tougher than it looked, it did have its limitations and he hadn't been taking particularly good care of it lately. He drew on his inner reserves of energy to compensate, and his halo welled up dimly around him, as he had no attention to spare for damping it down.