Come hither you bawdy drunkards
And let us dance into the yonder
But beware of will and blood
For sober we are nought
The pyre of murderous and demonic feeling glowed behind them, cursing the names of the two souls who banished them forever. This does not matter to the souls, for they lift their knuckles high and let their feathered birds fly. It is nothing short of a glorious moment, and they know this fact to be true, for the lovely ache thrumming deep underneath their bones is strong and present and greatly influencing their actions. The larger soul, the one shaded and surrounded with cimmerian flesh and stygian walls, puts a large and gentle palm on the others back, signaling the moment to depart from the scene of arson. The smaller one looks up at him with an odd expression of wonder, the liquor and some other unknown being making the emotion sharper and clearer.
The dark soul is sure she is about to speak, but the phrase is lost in translation, which he finds he doesn't mind. Words are not needed to always convey meaning. He knows she knows this. He then takes her soft, smooth, circle of skin in his hand and pulls her into the forest. He can hear her soft utterances of beautiful laughter from behind him. He adores the sound in all its forms. The dark one continues to drag her through the statuesque trees, feeling her stumble along, but knowing his roughness was only used simply for her protection. For even though the woods delivered the hind and buck, they produced demons as a catch. And those demons were just as unforgiving as the ones they'd both left behind.
When he sensed her truly starting to lag, to fall, he let up with his pace until they stop in a clearing graced by the moon's silver tendrils of light. Before he can truly decide what he means to do, there she was, pressed against his broad chest. For a slight moment, his heart flutters with fear of the unknown in which their relationship brings. But he relaxes a bit as he grows further accustomed to her warmth of body. And they stand there for a few silent moments, letting the feeling of her sink in. Suddenly, he gets this ridiculous, wonderful thought.
She's never had a prom.
Why in the hell would he even think that? He's sure it's the moonshine. But some small part of him knows that it's a little bit more than that. He knew she was about in her junior year of high school when things went bad, so that means she probably missed it. He assumed, judging by how well he seemed to know her at this juncture, that she most likely would have preferred a natural dance. He looked in the ocean of her eyes and knew what he wanted to do. He knows he's not the scholarly football star she normally would've gone with, but he hopes he'll be alright. He may have dropped out of high school at some point, but he sure as hell remembered Romeo and Juliet. He also remembered that idiotic dance his teacher made them all do to prove some point. Now, it seemed like anything but that.
He gently reached for her right hand and palmed it to his right hand. She glanced up with confusion. He gave what he hoped was a smile, and he turned in a wide arc, taking her with him. She smiled at him, and moved with him, until he wrapped his arm protectively around her waist. He twirled her around in a small spotlight of moon, admiring the way it shimmered off of her lovely blonde locks. She looked up at him, eyes full of feeling she couldn't place and cheeks flushed with moonshine. He spun her out again, and this time brought her back just a few inches from his chest. He then grabbed her tiny hands and fisted them into his. He swept them slowly to one side and then to the other.
Before he could even fathom what he was doing, he had her in a waltz he didn't even know he knew. He was sure she would question him about the knowledge he possessed of such a dance later on, but he would tell her the honest truth, even if it made him out to be a fool in the queens court. There was no more hiding, you didn't have time for it in a world such as theirs. He was still caught up in his thoughts, when he heard her. This sonnet and this tone was unlike many she'd recited before. The words had a certain whimsy to them, a sad, calling whimsy. It may have sounded a little out of place, but it was a magical sound, like that of the loon. And the lyrics were just as well as the tempered beat.
When the last eagle flies over the last crumbling mountain
And the last lion roars, at the last dusty fountain
And her shadows in the forest
Though she may seem old and worn
She stands there, in the moonlight
She's the last unicorn
He had no idea where she had gotten this song from, but it was now one of his most favored, no matter how mournful the tone. He moved to the fast beat of the song, taking her and her beautiful voice with him. They moved as one creature, as one body. For when there are still songs about unicorns and red bulls, when the sonnets of wizards and harpies remain, anything, as well as a lovers dance, is possible. Of course the pair in question wouldn't know it. In a different world they might have, and maybe one of them is aware tonight. At the moment it will remain unimportant, but it will all come to head in a matter of days. But for one night, the raucous screams of the world are muffled, and the ache of loss is hidden away for one evenning, one last dance. Demons lurk in the shadows, but they have the good sense to leave them be. Let them have their moment.
And the whole world stops to watch the happy drunks dancing in the shine of the moon.
Anon a hopeful maiden shall woo
A plagued hunter tired and true
And beware if she should sigh adieu
For many a foe he would dispatch
For a love that remains pure and true