Post by max on Feb 4, 2010 14:57:54 GMT 10
Title: Dancing Lessons II, The Anzadella
(Part III of the Sororitas Series)
Rating: PG
Length: 410
Competitor: Uline
Round/Fight: 1/H
Summary: In which there is a ball and a lot of artistic license.
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It had indeed been a joy to teach Kel to dance – in the space she had been given to do so, but watching Keladry, statuesque in a gown of crushed russet silk, being spun around the ballroom by people-other-than-herself as lightly as an autumn leaf, falling to the ground, she can’t help but feel jealousy churning through her body.
Kieran and she are a beautiful couple in these places, his arms so sure and nonchalantly light around her waist, their bodies so attuned to one another as to be two halves of the same perfect whole. The kind of couple people love or long to be; book of gold, beautiful with it, brought up into a world where they have never wanted, or been found wanting.
Until now.
‘Don’t make a scene,’ he murmurs into her hair. ‘How do you think I feel when Balduin plays the gallant knight?’
He spins her lightly out and away from him, and a circle widens to let them move into the more complicated and intimate patterns of the anzadella, to the sound of the guitar and clap of hands.
‘I never appreciated how hard it was for you until now,’ she replies as his hand slides up her back, and she sinks in his arms, almost to the floor.
It is one of the old dances, from the time when Tortall was smaller, and the old families of the east still called themselves Tusainian, and although Hannalof and haMinch have never been anything other than Tortallan, Uline and Kieran spent their childhood on those mountainous vineyard fiefs, in the years when their fathers served as border commanders, after the war. Under the fig trees in the afternoon sun, wrapped in the pellucid blue world, they learnt the anzadella, that most beautiful of dances, against which lovers are wrecked and soul mates found, and swirling around the dancefloor in Nond house now, their dancing finery complimenting his eye colour and her dark hair, they have come full circle, and there is more than a hint of mutual irony in their eyes when they spin to the final rest.
Staccato applause peppers them like hailstones as Kieran leads her off the floor, and then Keladry is there, her eyes a vibrant green, saying with the touch of her hand on Uline’s arm, Can we go somewhere.
Saying, You belong to me.
And then there are no words.
In the darkness, skin bared from silk, Uline dances for one soul alone.
(Part III of the Sororitas Series)
Rating: PG
Length: 410
Competitor: Uline
Round/Fight: 1/H
Summary: In which there is a ball and a lot of artistic license.
===========
It had indeed been a joy to teach Kel to dance – in the space she had been given to do so, but watching Keladry, statuesque in a gown of crushed russet silk, being spun around the ballroom by people-other-than-herself as lightly as an autumn leaf, falling to the ground, she can’t help but feel jealousy churning through her body.
Kieran and she are a beautiful couple in these places, his arms so sure and nonchalantly light around her waist, their bodies so attuned to one another as to be two halves of the same perfect whole. The kind of couple people love or long to be; book of gold, beautiful with it, brought up into a world where they have never wanted, or been found wanting.
Until now.
‘Don’t make a scene,’ he murmurs into her hair. ‘How do you think I feel when Balduin plays the gallant knight?’
He spins her lightly out and away from him, and a circle widens to let them move into the more complicated and intimate patterns of the anzadella, to the sound of the guitar and clap of hands.
‘I never appreciated how hard it was for you until now,’ she replies as his hand slides up her back, and she sinks in his arms, almost to the floor.
It is one of the old dances, from the time when Tortall was smaller, and the old families of the east still called themselves Tusainian, and although Hannalof and haMinch have never been anything other than Tortallan, Uline and Kieran spent their childhood on those mountainous vineyard fiefs, in the years when their fathers served as border commanders, after the war. Under the fig trees in the afternoon sun, wrapped in the pellucid blue world, they learnt the anzadella, that most beautiful of dances, against which lovers are wrecked and soul mates found, and swirling around the dancefloor in Nond house now, their dancing finery complimenting his eye colour and her dark hair, they have come full circle, and there is more than a hint of mutual irony in their eyes when they spin to the final rest.
Staccato applause peppers them like hailstones as Kieran leads her off the floor, and then Keladry is there, her eyes a vibrant green, saying with the touch of her hand on Uline’s arm, Can we go somewhere.
Saying, You belong to me.
And then there are no words.
In the darkness, skin bared from silk, Uline dances for one soul alone.