This was written for the Piercefic10 competition at Goldenlake, and is to date my second Emelan fic! :D
Her eyes were like a song.
They spoke to him in lyrics, giving him steps to trace and music to which he could dance those steps. Blue like cornflower skies, deeper than oceans—Pasco felt like he could drown in them, sometimes. Tippy-feet, Vani had once jeered, scorning his dancing. He did not do that anymore, not since the Dihanurs, not since he danced them to their death. But his cousin had a way of getting under his skin, always finding cracks in a smooth surface. Lover boy, he now smirked, lap dog. It did not bother him as tippy-feet had; now he had something greater than a harrier's life.
"What is this?" Yazmín would bark. "What are these dreamy steps? Hard leaps, hard spins—you're not trying to seduce me, you're supposed to be building a wall around me. Again!"
That was usually enough to ground him—she had placed him into a class of thirteen in addiction to his solitary lessons and it was embarrassing to be called out in front of them. He had to push her eyes out of his mind and dance to the music, to Yazmín's rhythmic orders, not to them. And if Yazmín suspected the reason behind his slow romantic motions, well, she was kind enough to leave it alone. The last thing Pasco needed was the duke's lover to suspect he mooned over his favorite great-niece.
She's noble, she's a lady, a niggling voice reminded him. She's not for you. With the rumors that the duke may make Sandry his heir, she went ever more out of his reach. A duchess of Emelan's House Toren could never marry a harrier's dancing son. He was nearing fifteen, growing into coltish limbs and the Acalon face, and he was wiser now. He knew his magic, he knew his heart. He knew much had changed in two years.
And now there was word that trouble was brewing in Namorn, where she visited. So, as he danced to Vedris' health most every night, this night he danced for Lady Sandrilene fa Toren.
Will you dance for us? she asked. For my uncle's birthday?
I would love to dance for you, lady.
He would always dance for her, should she ask. She had saved him from the Dihanur dagger at his throat. The least he could do was dance for her.
The full moon loomed overhead, casting enough light by which to see. He was alone in the harbor, on the end of a pier, with the sound of water all around him like a lullaby.
Step, step, to the right, point—spin, step, step, to the left, point. One hand out, fingers curling against his palm like a beckoning gesture (come here, lady) and the other pressed against his heart (you're here, lady).
Blue eyes whispered to him a poetry of song, a melody of waters around him and a lyric of blood and unmagic. She had stitched her thread in him as neatly as if she had made him, created him, which perhaps she did, in a way. He did not know where he would be if she had not found him that day and seen in him what no one else did. And so he did what he could to bring her back safely, and he danced to a song all her own.
Come here, lady. You're here, lady.