The girl who radiates death is also the girl who dances.
The moon's already crested far over the grassy hill, with twinkle-lights flitting in and out of the cattails and reeds that border the circle of downy tuft grass. You see the old wooden two-seater swing that's to your left; it's been there through months of rain and drying, eternally attached to the two tall weeping willow trees, which now seem to dance and dangle and wave along with the young woman who's traced by the moonlight.
You know she sees you watching her. You know that she is keeping her eye trained on you she spins rapidly, hair floating on the air. She spins faster now—
fasterandfasterandfasterfasterfasteruntilfinal lysheslows
d o w n
and lets her hair fall and bounce off of her back as she lifts her arms and one leg and does a delicate leap. You know that it's time to enter now, as she has known for the past half-hour now that you were awaiting your turn as she danced with her moonlit suitor. You do so as she brings her arms and hands straight out behind her, gliding backwards on tiptoes and allowing you room to make your first move.
You take a deep and illustrious bow that you deem fitting for the occasion. You know the routine, and you know you're going to be outmatched even in this simple movement, but you can't hide the impressed expression on your face when she dips down to begin her own greeting. You just can't get over how graceful she is, delicately touching a pointed toe to the ground and turning her back foot to the side, pulling back and giving a wonderful curtsy, looking you straight in the eyes the whole time. She quickly departs from this, turning and trotting to the other end of the grassy circle to begin again.
It's been years since you've taken ballet lessons. You remember the days when you said you'd do it 'for the sake of irony'. The memory of it has stayed ingrained in your being, though, and you fancy yourself to be a good dancer despite being out of practice. You've always been good with improv, and that works in your favor as she takes those light steps, as she does a rond de jambe while waiting for you to take your next move.
This is the first time in a while where you haven't done a pirouette purely to flip off the handle.
And you can do some damn good pirouettes.
It doesn't take long for the two of you to flow into a routine, gliding and moving with each other as though attached by mere threads at the fingers. You both know how time works; the time of each other, and the time of the invisible music which you can see and hear is starting to creep out of the young miss Aradia's mouth. She sings the vowel-shaped melody with a flat, hollow tone, but it still sends shivers running
u s
p p
t i
h n
e e
with the deadly precision of it all. You dance, she dances, you both dance your clothes into ruins and you dance the grass into ruins
but you don't care.
You don't care as you're dra gg e d along smoothly, swiftly for hours and hours until it speedsupdramaticallyandreach esthe
grand
pause
and you realize that the tempo, the pitch, nothing about the singing ever changed even as your sped up and slowed down.
She slowly sinks down into your arms and you dance slower with her than before, only having the energy to go at a walking pace. You see the ghost of a smile flit over her face, and you allow yourself one as well. Your soles ache with the renewal of ancient movements that you never thought you could remember, and your heart aches with a wonderful, physically painful feeling of passion that would have you in fits if you weren't so exhausted.
It's been a long time since you've fallen quite so free of your facade.
And for a moment, just for a moment, she accepts you as you are and you maybe just
maybe
finally
feel like you could be a hero
