|Thu, 8 Apr 1999|
The Dancer From The Dance
Well, here's a very short piece written just to celebrate having a damn nice Easter (and to get over having spent most of the day writing a Genetics assignment).
Gruesome - no. Psychologically nasty - ooh yeah.
Disclaimer: Marvel's - not mine. No profit - no harm - so no sending the crazed chipmunks to nibble me to death.
The Dancer From The Dance
She was dancing.
When she danced everything was right with the world, the universe, her mind, her soul.
Everything she needed was in the dance. Purpose, serenity, vision, purity, clarity.
She danced now, mind and body, soul and sword, magic and grace all moving with one clear purpose, all moving to the music of the universe that flowed through her when she danced.
He would not stop talking.
She hated it when they talked. Didn't they hear the music thrilling through her? Didn't they know that when they talked the music jarred and clashed and her limbs would seem halt and shuddering as they danced to the broken music? Didn't they know she needed the silence to hear the music in its clear and perfect form?
She tried to shut him out, straining her ears to hear the melody that moved her limbs, using her whole body to try and amplify the song of the universe.
Sweep, dip katana, turn, jump, meld into shadow, burst into sunlight, in air, then swoop down until toes touched ground and then up again, turn, thrust, spin, soar, kick, dive, slide.
He would *not* stop talking.
She heard the words inside the dance and they were a wrongness inside her head and they stopped her hearing the music. ~Save you,~ they chittered and buzzed, ~come to save you, love you, come back with me, help you, want to help you, save you.~
'I didn't ask you to save me,' she screamed. 'I don't want you to save me.' A scream so loud, so passionate, that for a moment he actually shut up. She wondered where the words had come from - where the passion had come from. She had no passions now.
Save the dance.
The music was in her again and she began the dance anew, limbs shining within the pattern she made with sword and body, her mind filled with the soaring purity of the music. Different music, every time new music. And a new dance for the one she danced with - a new dance for a partner who could fly.
And then he was talking *again* and the music grated with the words of him and she tried to dance, tried so hard, but his words slipped into the spaces between the beats of the dance and her limbs strained against invisible bonds and the dance would not come right. ~Save you,~ he said. ~Come to save you. Save you. Love you. Save you.~
Why wouldn't he shut up?
Why couldn't he leave her alone?
But he kept talking and the dance was not the same and though she leapt and whirled and strained to capture the music he would *not* shut up. ~Save you, save you, save you~ beat at her and she couldn't hear the music. Her eyes filled with tears that bled down her cheeks and she frantically tried to capture the dance.
'I never asked you to save me,' she screamed and the music fled from her. 'It costs me too *much*.' And she whirled and, though the dance had left her, her aim was straight and true and with deadly grace she launched her katana outwards and upwards at the man who had stolen the dance from her.
He fell from the sky, white wings against white dome, blueness to match the sky outside, red drops to match the fury that rose behind her eyes.
Then he was still and silent and she heard again the music of the dance, though it was faint now and leaving her, lost without a partner to dance with.
She untangled the katana from his body and cleaned it against his wings. Absently she remembered the passion she had shouted at him and wondered where it had come from. It was utterly gone from her now.
She used the katana gently, sawing the cutting edge against his wings until she had a handful of pinions. She took them to the edge of the arena and presented them to her king.
'Locke,' he sighed and took the feathers from her fingers, her trophy for him. 'You are always so beautiful when you dance - so deadly. No wonder your ratings are so high.'
'Lord Mojo,' she said formally, and dipped into a half-bow. She rose again, but her head stayed bowed as she tried to trace the last meanderings of the music through her body. Going now, it sighed gentle notes to her, notes of farewell and regret and a promise to return.
Then the music was gone and the only thing left inside of her were the empty spaces where all the things she had been had gradually been lost to her, ripped from her, stolen and taken and lost. She needed the music, needed it to fill the holes inside of her where someone once had loved and laughed and lived before being - dismantled, needed it to fill the emptiness. There was another empty space now, a hollow in her breast that had not been there before and she wondered if her last partner had once meant something to her - meant something before she was Locke.
But the thought was only fleeting and it disappeared under her longing for the music.
She wondered who she would dance with tomorrow.