Lift Me High (1/1)
(AN: Tumblr prompt request for Aurora as a dancer preparing for her first solo performance. AU Storybrooke, pre-curse I guess… mostly a brief drabble. Does not fit into the timeline of my other AU 's or headcannon. Pardon any inaccuracies.)
"Oh gods, I can't do this." Aurora's admission came out in a muttered hissed, sliding through her teeth, laden with despair. She turned slowly in front of the silvery panel of the ballet studio's full-length mirror, scrutinizing every piece of herself from the bun in her hair to her bare toes in the immaculate glass. Her eyes raked every exposed inch of pale skin, perusing every toned muscle hidden beneath the thin veneer of her pale pink leotard.
The long thready scar that trailed from her left knee down to just above her pale ankle seemed to twitch and pucker; an angry reminder of her body's frailty. She had failed once already, and it had cost her a shinbone, multiple surgeries, two titanium pins and several months of intensive physical therapy. The horrid screams and blood-curdling crack of her splintering leg still sat freshly in her memories. But, she knew, the agony of a compound fracture was nothing compared to the painstaking frustration of learning to walk again.
Being strapped to a hospital bed, riddled with wires and tubes and beeping machines had been torture. She silently swore that the weeks trapped in that warren of blurred, grey-toned walls had driven her temporarily mad. Bile rose in the back of her throat as she imagined the sterile smell of metal and antiseptic.
But now she was a prisoner of a different kind: a slave to the demands of her own obsessive nature.
She'd been a captive of the mirrored walls nearly all day, laboring over her craft. Repeating each step of her routine again and again with ruthless, dogged determination, striving for perfection.
The recital was in only a few short days, and she had to be flawless. She had to prove to them that she was just as good now as when she was whole.
Her eyes were tired, rimmed with dark circles and drooping lids, as she clenched and flexed her bare toes. She pointed and arched her body, leg outstretched, into a perfect arabesque. Her palms slid down the toned muscles, checking her lines, and feeling the flexed tendons that stood out in stark relief.
She raised her hands above her head, her first and forefingers arching as her palms cupped themselves into the dainty well-practiced form. Her neck stretched up, swan-like, the hollows of her throat sweeping low into the curvature of her collarbone. The auburn tresses that had once flown free were pulled high and back in a tight bun laced with bobby pins and hairspray, with nary a wisp out of place. Controlled. Tamed.
Gracefully she lowered her outstretched leg to the floor, bending her knees into a perfect plié. Centering herself, she flexed her fingers, bracing herself and solidifying her fortitude for what was to come next.
Aurora stood in complete stillness. The barely detectable inhale of breath, expansion of her ribcage, and soft rise and fall of her diaphragm were the only motions she dared allow. She tensed, reveling in the subtle pulse of her straining muscles crying for release, as she shifted her weight from the balls of her feet up and to the tips of her toes. She arched her soles and swept herself up into a whirling, turning, pirouette. The world spun by in a race of colors, blending together with a rush of wind coupled with the heady sensation of blood rushing to her brain. Her turning slowed to a stop after only a few brief moments, dwindling to nothingness as she lost momentum.
She held the position, still perched on the tips of her toes, trembling with the pressure and exertion. Her bones and ankles screamed for mercy, but still she held.
Sweat beaded on her brow and her teeth clenched making the tendon in her jaw flex and twang with tension. Her pupils sucked themselves to the middle of her irises, constricting in pain as focus warred with the primal need for relief. Joints burned and popped beneath the weight, threatening to give way. Torn muscles that had been sliced through by a surgeon's scalpel only a few weeks prior screamed in agony, threatening to tear again.
This, Aurora thought, was what dance was about: walking the thin line between pain and perfection.
She dropped back to the floor, panting hard, and supporting herself with a hand grasping the cool brass ballet bar. Her blood pounded, laced with endorphins to numb the throbbing ache. Her scar glared back an angry red. Inside her head the patronizing voice of her doctors wheedled their petulant reminders
"Now don't push yourself. You'll be lucky to be up and walking by the end of the week. The muscles are still torn to shreds, and the bone…well, it may not ever heal right. Just be sure to take it easy."
She ignored the sour crimson pulse of her scar's silent admonishment and rolled her shoulders, popping and flexing her back with a turn. They could say whatever they liked, but this body was hers. She would tolerate nothing less than excellence, steel splints or no.
She vaulted herself, hop skipping along the wood-paneled flooring, before setting into a plié and pushing off with all her might.
Suddenly she was a fairy creature, graced with gossamer wings lighter than air, sailing through the thin atmosphere with ease.
Her knees snapped up, legs splayed wide in a mid-air split, arms high and outstretched as if reaching for the heavens. Her neck arched, tossing her head back like a doe leaping through a woodland glen. Her spine was a supple curve, bent like a bowstring that would send an arrow upon a deadly flight.
Everything was flawlessly measured. Every motion was precise.
But gravity soon had its way, and the flight of the fairy-princess soon ended as she came crashing back down to Earth.
Her toes pointed themselves, hoping to catch her weight in another dainty plié, but she overshot. Her foot folded, coming down a second too early and her arch buckled, bending nearly in half, as she stumbled forwards. She staggered trying to regain her balance, her leg crumpling beneath her as she desperately tried to keep the weight off her tender wound. The joints in her ankle overstretched, and sickening pop of tendons resounded through the empty room as she landed hard. Her ankle rolled, and she hit the floor hard on the side of her hip, letting out a yelp as the boney ridge of her pelvis took the brunt of the force. She skittered to a stop, feeling the ache of soon-to-be bruises blooming along her rear and ribs. The sprained ankle would heal, but she would be black-and-blue by morning. A fleeting memory flashed before her mind's eye. It was the time she had seen a young boy smash his sister's porcelain doll on the sidewalk. The girl had bawled, loud and long, her tiny baby fists clenched in two-year-old fury as she screamed her indignation while the tiny ballerina lay crushed in the gritty road-way dirt, shattered into a thousand tiny irreparable pieces. Broken. Aurora thought. Just like me. They would all see her when she stepped up on stage. All of her friends, family, and loved ones…she knew they would all be there, seated in the tiny velvet, plush seats of the theatre, watching with bated breath. Expecting her to fall. She imagined all their dark eyes boring into her, examining her shattered shards so poorly reassembled and gaping at the cracks. She knew she couldn't bare their pity. There was no point in getting up. She curled her knees into herself, shuddering with mingled anguish and soreness. Hot tears pricked at the corner of her lids. She hated this. She hated herself. Her body was a prison, no longer able to give her the one pleasure she'd found in this miserable hollowness. She was a cracked vessel, devoid of use and purpose. A wail racked her bruised ribcage, and her lungs heaved with wordless sorrow. Her eyes clenched closed and her mind slipped into a dark betwixt place, bare of feeling and meaning. She was alone. Time passed in a manner both agonizingly slow and terrifyingly quickly. Tears dried in salty rivulets on her cheeks, and were replaced by new ones as each bought of crying heaved and pitched her shivering body like tumultuous waves on a storm-tossed sea. Aurora lost all grasp of time, unsure of how long she lay curled in the studio's private back-room. Was it ages, or seconds? Minutes or day? Truthfully, she simply couldn't find the energy to care. "Miss? There's a boxing class that starts in this room in about 30 minutes, you may want to-…. Uh…Miss are you alright?" A voice low and tender sounded both far away and much to close. Leave me. Aurora pleaded silently. Leave me alone to die with what remains of my broken dreams. "Miss…" Warm calloused hands settled gently along her waist, cupping and holding. Caressing gently, and rubbing in long horizontal strokes of comfort. A hard work-worn thumb rolled along the knobs of her spine, working in tiny circles. "Everything is going to be ok. I promise." The strange voice murmured, bracing Aurora's back and pulling her body out of its curled fetal position. Stiff sore joints groaned at the movement, irate at being crouched in one unmoving position for so long. A whimper escaped Aurora's lips, as she was guided up into an awkward cross-legged hunch. A tanned womanly face, framed by shoulder-length locks of ebony, filled her vision. Dark eyes, the color of well-oiled mahogany wood stared her down, filled with concern. A silent and grave thin-lipped frown painted itself across the instructor's face. Dark brows crinkled in keen examination, as the fighter studied the blotchy pale face of the dancer. Aurora sat, transfixed for a moment, confused by the odd deep sense of wisdom and knowing that the martial woman held clutched about her like a cloak. "You need someone to talk to…" It was a statement, not a question. An assessment. The acknowledgement of one heart's empty hurt; a mutual understanding for the need for companionship and a non-judgmental ear. Aurora wiped at her eyes, the salty tear lines that covered her cheeks felt crusty and stiff. "Don't be ridiculous. I don't need anyone's help." The stranger snorted glibly. "Maybe that's the issue." Aurora glared, measuring the woman up with an icy, taciturn scowl. "So, what brings you to the studio at...?" The fighter paused momentarily to check the tiny black sports watch on her wrist. "8 am." So it was morning, Aurora mused. She'd slept the wee hours of dawn away, folded in a pall of heavy-laden emptiness, untouched by the early rays of the sun. How appropriate. "I was practicing." The dancer mumbled a reply, tenderly running a hand over her now-swollen ankle. "Curled up on the floor?" The dark haired woman arched an eyebrow. "Funny way of practicing." "Yes, I mean, No." Aurora spat, flustered partly by lack of sleep and the woman's cool observant demeanor. "I was dancing…but I fell." Her voice cracked, and she gritted her teeth, crystal blue eyes traced her ropey scar with furious shame and loathing. The woman cocked her head to the side and lapsed into silence for a moment. "We all fall sometimes." She murmured, never moving her penetrating hawk-like gaze from the dancer's face. "The mark of a warrior is getting back up." Aurora, frowned, not making eye contact. What did this stranger know? She was broken inside. Couldn't everyone see that? The scar sneered like a torn mouth, grinning devilishly across her immaculate pale skin. "I'd bet you're a warrior. Deep down. I see it, you know. I see it in your face. You're battered, not broken. Never broken." A calloused battle-scarred hand extended itself in front of the ballerina's face, open and welcoming; offering up strength and redemption. Aurora looked up, meeting the fighter's gaze. She hesitated, weighing her thoughts. Her slender fingers slipped easily into the other woman's grasp, and she was swiftly pulled to her feet. The fighter rumbled her voice throaty, safe, and strong. "My name's Mulan" "Aurora." The dancer whispered, hope kindling in her eyes of icy blue. "My name's Aurora."