Post by Seek on Aug 14, 2017 23:09:53 GMT 10
Series: Mountains and Rivers
Title: Dancing Lessons
Rating: G
Event: Frisky Fencing
Words: 1356 words
Summary: Neal and Kel and the other pages take dancing lessons. Master Oakbridge is extremely upset. Hijinks galore!
Note: This takes place in a reversal AU where: A) Kel disguises herself as a boy to win her shield, and B) deals with the events of Alanna's day, e.g. the Tusaine War and Duke Roger's scheming. Alanna and co. have not yet been born. This particular fic can probably be partly-read as canon-compliant, but I've deliberately toned down on Cleon's endearments since he doesn't seem to use them with the boys.
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As soon as the music ended, Neal’s arm dropped away from Kel’s waist, as if he’d been touching a hot potato.
“Neal,” Kel said, patiently.
“Hmm? Oh,” he muttered, and released her hand. He shook his head, ruefully. “Sorry about that.”
Kel shrugged. “Once we switch up, I’m probably going to be stepping on your toes anyway, so why keep count?”
“Brutal,” Neal said, with an exaggerated shudder. “I can already hear my toes screaming.”
Around them, pages separated from their dancing partners; laughing, grimacing, and making faces. Out of the corner of her eye, Kel saw Merric and Quinden awkwardly disentangle themselves from each other, while Seaver stumbled over Prosper’s boots and Cleon pretended to kiss Esmond’s hand—Esmond immediately snatched his hand away.
“We’re a mess,” Neal commented, following the direction of Kel’s gaze. “I just bet Master Oakbridge is beside himself with glee.”
“You think?” Kel made a face. They were a ragged, disorderly mess of pages, and she wasn’t looking forward to the fussy master of ceremonies deciding they needed extra hours of dancing practice.
“Some people thrive on catastrophe,” Neal told her. “I’d bet you anything that Oakbridge is one of them. He lives for disasters of etiquette that need to be rectified—”
“Queenscove and Mindelan, stop gossiping!” Master Oakbridge snapped, drifting between pairs of pages. “Kennan, stop flirting with Nicoline; Irenroha, Disart, you’re dancing, not arm-wrestling!” He ran a hand through his pale blond curls. “Bright Mithros, I appeal to you,” he murmured, raising both eyes and hands to the ceiling. “It seems you all require a week of practice, at the very least. Certainly, I dare not unleash you upon civilised company in your current state.”
Merric’s groan was audible, even though he was on the other side of the room.
Master Oakbridge whirled upon him. “When you can dance and not act like a landed fish, Page Merric—then you may see fit to protest additional practice.”
Merric’s cheeks flamed almost as brilliant red as his hair, and he shut up.
“Now,” Master Oakbridge said, “Exchange roles; boys, become girls, girls, it is your turn to assume the role of the boy.” A certain amount of giggling and groaning greeted his statement, and Cleon batted his eyelashes at Esmond.
Kel swapped over with Neal, already struggling to keep the jumble of steps together in her head. She looped her arm about his waist, and reached for his hand. It was somewhat ridiculous, Kel thought, in spite of herself: Neal was older and taller than most of the other pages, herself included.
“Begin on the count,” Master Oakbridge instructed. “Five, six, seven, eight!”
The pages obediently burst into motion, as the musician Master Oakbridge had brought in struck up the same bland music they’d been hearing for the entire afternoon. It was like a pattern-dance with the glaive, Kel told herself, but past the first four beats, the steps began to blur together in her head and she stomped repeatedly on Neal’s toes, and then Neal was tripping over her feet. He tipped over, but Kel was there, and managed to recover for both of them.
They were the lucky ones, Kel discovered. Merric was determinedly stomping on Quinden’s foot; Quinden had just had about enough and had resorted to kicking Merric in the shin. Esmond barely came up to Cleon’s chin and as a result, was occasionally head-butting the giant page as they mangled the dance.
Faleron and Roald, in contrast, were the eye of the storm. The tumultous waters of the world surrounded them and engulfed them but they were untouched, moving as one together through the various steps of the dance.
“This!” Master Oakbridge declared, sweeping in on them. Startled, Faleron let go of Roald and they tumbled to a halt. The master of ceremonies ignored that flash of disorder as he drew their attention towards the pair. “This is exactly how you all should be dancing! Just look at the rest of you!” He shook his head, at an apparent loss for words. “This will not do.”
“You know,” Neal remarked, “I’m pretty sure I could have predicted this would happen, even before this afternoon’s debacle.”
“You will all report to me for an additional week’s practice,” Master Oakbridge concluded, darkly, even as the bell rang, summoning them—thankfully—to lunch. “I will have words with Duke Gareth about this, you may be sure of it.”
“We’re in for it now,” Neal concluded, gloomily. “It will be weeks before we are permitted to see the sun—by then, we shall be wilting…”
“We’re not flowers,” Kel pointed out, as they collected their belongings and got ready to leave.
“Speak for yourself,” Neal retorted. “I, for one, have noticed my growing resemblance to a daffodil.”
Seaver squinted at him. “Aren’t bruises purple first and then yellow?” he wanted to know. He casually bumped Kel with his shoulder. “Trade you for Prosper.”
“Are we changing dancing partners now?” Merric took a sudden interest in the conversation. He was rubbing his shin. “Neal, can you do anything about my shin?”
Neal briefly bent over and placed a hand on Merric’s shin. There was a faint gleam of dark emerald light. “Done,” he announced. “You may now shower me with effusive praise. I also accept fawning gratitude, flowers, and candied fruit.”
A long arm draped across her shoulder, startling Kel. Cleon flashed her—and then Neal—a broad grin as he looped the other arm about Neal. “Kellen, my lad,” he said, almost conversationally. “Will you take pity on me and practice with me?”
“Hey!” Neal protested. “Stick with your own partner!”
“Why?” Kel wanted to know.
Cleon shrugged his broad shoulders. “You’re decent,” he said.
“Should’ve told that to my toes,” Neal muttered.
“Seriously,” Cleon said. “Do you know how many times I’ve been headbutted by Esmond?”
“Quinden was practically elbowing me in the face!” Merric protested.
“I don’t even want to think of a week of fumbling around with Prosper,” Seaver added. “Sure, everyone makes mistakes. But you and Neal don’t make so many of them.” He shot a disgruntled glance at Merric which told Kel she hadn’t been the only one to figure why Quinden was all but hobbling away to lunch. “I could think of worse people to practice with.”
“What about me?” Neal demanded. “Why’re all of you queuing up to ask for Kel’s hand?”
“Hey,” Seaver said, taking Neal’s hand with a shrug. “If you’re offering…”
Neal drew himself up to his full height. “As much as I relish your enthusiasm, Page Seaver,” he said, shucking off Seaver’s hand with his best impression of Master Oakbridge, “I regret to inform you that I am currently satisfied with the existing arrangements.”
“Then why even ask?” Esmond piped up.
“You could ask Faleron, or Roald,” Kel pointed out, quietly.
“Please,” Merric said. “They’re so smooth, they’re like silk. Like flowing water. Like the cut of a sword. Like—”
“What he means,” Seaver said, interrupting Merric, “Is that if you were that good at dancing, would you swap partners for someone who’s bound to stomp on your toes for most of the next week?”
They were all forced to agree this seemed indeed a rather dismal proposal.
“So there you have it,” Seaver concluded. “We’re doomed.”
Kel considered the matter at hand and settled on the most pressing issue. “I want lunch,” she announced. “I’m hungry. Aren’t you?” She slipped free of Cleon’s grasp and headed directly for the exit.
Behind her, she could hear Seaver and Merric arguing about trading partners and who was going to start off as the girl tomorrow. A few moments later, Neal fell in beside her.
“We’re going for our last meal,” he said, cheerfully. “Before Duke Gareth delivers us into the tender mercies of Oakbridge.”
“We only report to him tomorrow,” Kel pointed out. “And we get dinner and breakfast. That makes it two more meals.”
“Don’t you ever tire of being so literal?” Neal murmured.
Kel shrugged. “Someone has to make sure you don’t get carried away,” she replied ruthlessly, as they strode off to lunch.
Title: Dancing Lessons
Rating: G
Event: Frisky Fencing
Words: 1356 words
Summary: Neal and Kel and the other pages take dancing lessons. Master Oakbridge is extremely upset. Hijinks galore!
Note: This takes place in a reversal AU where: A) Kel disguises herself as a boy to win her shield, and B) deals with the events of Alanna's day, e.g. the Tusaine War and Duke Roger's scheming. Alanna and co. have not yet been born. This particular fic can probably be partly-read as canon-compliant, but I've deliberately toned down on Cleon's endearments since he doesn't seem to use them with the boys.
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As soon as the music ended, Neal’s arm dropped away from Kel’s waist, as if he’d been touching a hot potato.
“Neal,” Kel said, patiently.
“Hmm? Oh,” he muttered, and released her hand. He shook his head, ruefully. “Sorry about that.”
Kel shrugged. “Once we switch up, I’m probably going to be stepping on your toes anyway, so why keep count?”
“Brutal,” Neal said, with an exaggerated shudder. “I can already hear my toes screaming.”
Around them, pages separated from their dancing partners; laughing, grimacing, and making faces. Out of the corner of her eye, Kel saw Merric and Quinden awkwardly disentangle themselves from each other, while Seaver stumbled over Prosper’s boots and Cleon pretended to kiss Esmond’s hand—Esmond immediately snatched his hand away.
“We’re a mess,” Neal commented, following the direction of Kel’s gaze. “I just bet Master Oakbridge is beside himself with glee.”
“You think?” Kel made a face. They were a ragged, disorderly mess of pages, and she wasn’t looking forward to the fussy master of ceremonies deciding they needed extra hours of dancing practice.
“Some people thrive on catastrophe,” Neal told her. “I’d bet you anything that Oakbridge is one of them. He lives for disasters of etiquette that need to be rectified—”
“Queenscove and Mindelan, stop gossiping!” Master Oakbridge snapped, drifting between pairs of pages. “Kennan, stop flirting with Nicoline; Irenroha, Disart, you’re dancing, not arm-wrestling!” He ran a hand through his pale blond curls. “Bright Mithros, I appeal to you,” he murmured, raising both eyes and hands to the ceiling. “It seems you all require a week of practice, at the very least. Certainly, I dare not unleash you upon civilised company in your current state.”
Merric’s groan was audible, even though he was on the other side of the room.
Master Oakbridge whirled upon him. “When you can dance and not act like a landed fish, Page Merric—then you may see fit to protest additional practice.”
Merric’s cheeks flamed almost as brilliant red as his hair, and he shut up.
“Now,” Master Oakbridge said, “Exchange roles; boys, become girls, girls, it is your turn to assume the role of the boy.” A certain amount of giggling and groaning greeted his statement, and Cleon batted his eyelashes at Esmond.
Kel swapped over with Neal, already struggling to keep the jumble of steps together in her head. She looped her arm about his waist, and reached for his hand. It was somewhat ridiculous, Kel thought, in spite of herself: Neal was older and taller than most of the other pages, herself included.
“Begin on the count,” Master Oakbridge instructed. “Five, six, seven, eight!”
The pages obediently burst into motion, as the musician Master Oakbridge had brought in struck up the same bland music they’d been hearing for the entire afternoon. It was like a pattern-dance with the glaive, Kel told herself, but past the first four beats, the steps began to blur together in her head and she stomped repeatedly on Neal’s toes, and then Neal was tripping over her feet. He tipped over, but Kel was there, and managed to recover for both of them.
They were the lucky ones, Kel discovered. Merric was determinedly stomping on Quinden’s foot; Quinden had just had about enough and had resorted to kicking Merric in the shin. Esmond barely came up to Cleon’s chin and as a result, was occasionally head-butting the giant page as they mangled the dance.
Faleron and Roald, in contrast, were the eye of the storm. The tumultous waters of the world surrounded them and engulfed them but they were untouched, moving as one together through the various steps of the dance.
“This!” Master Oakbridge declared, sweeping in on them. Startled, Faleron let go of Roald and they tumbled to a halt. The master of ceremonies ignored that flash of disorder as he drew their attention towards the pair. “This is exactly how you all should be dancing! Just look at the rest of you!” He shook his head, at an apparent loss for words. “This will not do.”
“You know,” Neal remarked, “I’m pretty sure I could have predicted this would happen, even before this afternoon’s debacle.”
“You will all report to me for an additional week’s practice,” Master Oakbridge concluded, darkly, even as the bell rang, summoning them—thankfully—to lunch. “I will have words with Duke Gareth about this, you may be sure of it.”
“We’re in for it now,” Neal concluded, gloomily. “It will be weeks before we are permitted to see the sun—by then, we shall be wilting…”
“We’re not flowers,” Kel pointed out, as they collected their belongings and got ready to leave.
“Speak for yourself,” Neal retorted. “I, for one, have noticed my growing resemblance to a daffodil.”
Seaver squinted at him. “Aren’t bruises purple first and then yellow?” he wanted to know. He casually bumped Kel with his shoulder. “Trade you for Prosper.”
“Are we changing dancing partners now?” Merric took a sudden interest in the conversation. He was rubbing his shin. “Neal, can you do anything about my shin?”
Neal briefly bent over and placed a hand on Merric’s shin. There was a faint gleam of dark emerald light. “Done,” he announced. “You may now shower me with effusive praise. I also accept fawning gratitude, flowers, and candied fruit.”
A long arm draped across her shoulder, startling Kel. Cleon flashed her—and then Neal—a broad grin as he looped the other arm about Neal. “Kellen, my lad,” he said, almost conversationally. “Will you take pity on me and practice with me?”
“Hey!” Neal protested. “Stick with your own partner!”
“Why?” Kel wanted to know.
Cleon shrugged his broad shoulders. “You’re decent,” he said.
“Should’ve told that to my toes,” Neal muttered.
“Seriously,” Cleon said. “Do you know how many times I’ve been headbutted by Esmond?”
“Quinden was practically elbowing me in the face!” Merric protested.
“I don’t even want to think of a week of fumbling around with Prosper,” Seaver added. “Sure, everyone makes mistakes. But you and Neal don’t make so many of them.” He shot a disgruntled glance at Merric which told Kel she hadn’t been the only one to figure why Quinden was all but hobbling away to lunch. “I could think of worse people to practice with.”
“What about me?” Neal demanded. “Why’re all of you queuing up to ask for Kel’s hand?”
“Hey,” Seaver said, taking Neal’s hand with a shrug. “If you’re offering…”
Neal drew himself up to his full height. “As much as I relish your enthusiasm, Page Seaver,” he said, shucking off Seaver’s hand with his best impression of Master Oakbridge, “I regret to inform you that I am currently satisfied with the existing arrangements.”
“Then why even ask?” Esmond piped up.
“You could ask Faleron, or Roald,” Kel pointed out, quietly.
“Please,” Merric said. “They’re so smooth, they’re like silk. Like flowing water. Like the cut of a sword. Like—”
“What he means,” Seaver said, interrupting Merric, “Is that if you were that good at dancing, would you swap partners for someone who’s bound to stomp on your toes for most of the next week?”
They were all forced to agree this seemed indeed a rather dismal proposal.
“So there you have it,” Seaver concluded. “We’re doomed.”
Kel considered the matter at hand and settled on the most pressing issue. “I want lunch,” she announced. “I’m hungry. Aren’t you?” She slipped free of Cleon’s grasp and headed directly for the exit.
Behind her, she could hear Seaver and Merric arguing about trading partners and who was going to start off as the girl tomorrow. A few moments later, Neal fell in beside her.
“We’re going for our last meal,” he said, cheerfully. “Before Duke Gareth delivers us into the tender mercies of Oakbridge.”
“We only report to him tomorrow,” Kel pointed out. “And we get dinner and breakfast. That makes it two more meals.”
“Don’t you ever tire of being so literal?” Neal murmured.
Kel shrugged. “Someone has to make sure you don’t get carried away,” she replied ruthlessly, as they strode off to lunch.
Maybe once we'd have seen it during Smackdown!