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Why are these women here dancing on their own?
Why is there this sadness in their eyes?
Why are the soldiers here
Their faces fixed like stone?
I can't see what it is that they despise
They're dancing with the missing
They're dancing with the dead
They dance with the invisible ones
Their anguish is unsaid
They're dancing with their fathers
They're dancing with their sons
They're dancing with their husbands
They dance alone - They dance alone

Sting - 'They Dance Alone'

'When thou seest an Eagle, thou seest a portion of Genius. lift up thy head!'

'No bird soars too high, if he soars with his own wings.'

- William Blake : "The Marriage of Heaven and Hell" -

I.

The friendly-looking face of the legionnaire cracked up at that. He bent on the middle and laughter shook him, and all the while he gasped his words forth, the effect being if not exactly charming, then at least not without merit, as far as entertainment value was concerned.

"As if.. as if.. And he had to stop to clear his throat and straighten up again, before he continued, his eyes still shining with mirth : "Come on, you have to admit it. You barbarians don't have any 'culture', as ordinary civilized men would define it. Not unless you count dancing naked under the moon and drinking goats blood as 'culture'.

He meant it all in good-natured fun. Somehow, that just made it worse.

Bedwyr eyed him dryly. Then cocked his head slightly backwards, nodding towards his fellows without turning to face them. "Dance of Eagle," was the only three words he uttered.

Initially, no one responded. Then, the slightly embarrassed voice of Gawain could be heard. "Bedwyr.. he said the name carefully, as if talking to a bear he did not want to anger, "None of us master it. Most of us went to the wall before we would normally have danced it first time. And those who did are too.. well.. old to dance it now," and here Gawain inserted an apologetic shrug aimed at Bedwyr himself, "Except Bors, and well, he just never was a dancer. "

"Hey!" the outcry of an aggreived Bors could be heard from behind, but it was ignored, because everyone knew that Gawain was right.

"Also," Gawain continued, "you have to be at least three for dancing it. Anything else is just insane."

Silence fell over the room then. The legionnaire was peaking at them from over Bedwyr's shoulder, trying, but not with much success, to not look too smug.

No one seemed to know how to withdraw.

II.

Then, an overbearing sigh.

"Hold this."

And Tristran put the sheath with the long hunting knife he always carried in Gawain's palm, not missing the chance to send the latter an awl-like look.

Whimp, it said.

The sarmatians present looked nervously at each other.
They were all thinking the same thing.
How do we stop him?
The dance of Eagle was a dance of extremely controlled movements, and it was very very long. It was incredibly hard. If you did not have the physical resilience, your body would simply refuse to cooperate. This was why it was usually only danced by males. Moreover, it was always danced by several men, so that when one grew tired, another would take over and carry it on through the next movement.
Each Sarmatian remembered his father, covered in sweat, dragging himself home, proud but completely exahusted. People had been known to have joints and muscles so sore afterwards that they could barely move for days after. It was taboo, an unwritten law, that no hostile action towards another tribe was ever made in the days after the Eagle had been danced, because only the women would be in full capacity. It simply was considered dishonourable to take advantage of it.
But there wasn't anyone, save possibly Bedwyr, who remembered it anymore.
Except Tristran.
They watched, at a loss, as he began. He went through the motions of the first movement, seeming completely oblivious to the amused snickers of the surrounding crowd. He closed his eyes, and only his lips were moving silently, as if he was whispering the ways of the steps to himself.
After some time, the crowd fell silent. They stared, British civitas and legionnaires alike, ceased their snickering and just gawked.

Tristran danced.

III.


He began the second movement.
Bors mumbled something, but no one moved. It was as if no one dared, all hypnotized by the lonely figure in the midst of the circle.
The sweat was pouring from him now. He was swaying, as if to a pulse, or hearing a tune inside his mind that no one else could.

People had started talking again. The legionnaires were placing bets and stayed to watch, but they had sent someone for the next round of mead. Activity had resumed somewhat around the circle, but it was hushed and sporadic.

IV.

He reached the third movement, and the fourth.

"Stop him, dammit.. Bors couldn't take it anymore, and trudged off, an uneasy look upon his face.

The bets had ceased again. Vanora was still selling plenty of mead, but it was consumed in increasing silence. Everyone tried to continue their merrymaking, but it was as if the circle drew them all in, and there was at all times a thick brim of bystanders.

Hours went by.

Tristran danced.

V.

He ended the fifth movement, and began the sixth. He was drenched all over now, like someone had poured a bucket of water over him.

He danced.
The feeling of awe from the crowd started to become uneasy, to be replaced with something else. Mothers were gathering up their youngest and carrying them away, their movements skittish.
Tristran danced.

VI.


By the time he reached the seventh move, it was clear that it was his will alone that kept it going. Those who knew him, and who knew the dance, could sense it, the slight shivering of muscles screaming with pain, but he was merciless, ecstatic, whipping himself through it, eyes still closed and a strange expression of bliss on his face that no one remembered having seen there ever before. He turned. He swayed. He held his arms high. He was the eagle. He was grace incarnate.

It was self-torture by now.
"Stop him." This time, Gawain would have no more of it. "I don't care how pissed off he will get. He is going to destroy himself. Bedwyr, stop him. Now!"
But still, it was as if no one could move.

VII.


The Britons were quite uneasy now. People were talking to each other in hushed whispers, moving uneasily, unsure what to do. More and more started leaving, as if fleeing the scene. As for the Sarmatians, they stood all as if chipped in stone, horrified and entranced, their hearts crying for home while their minds were screaming to intervene. No one did.

Tristran danced.

VIII.


Finally, the ninth movement was done, and he stopped, tall and straight, eyes still closed, face towards the sky, arms out wide as a rivalling picture of the one the Romans called Christ.
"Bloody hell!" a voice was bellowing from the back. "I told you to stop him!"

It was Bors who had come back. He was making his way now, rather harshly, through the crowd encircling the floor, his face betraying his worry, as did his throwing legionnaires and British civilians alike behind him as he went, his gaze fixed on the lone, tall figure in the centre of the circle.
There was a twitch at the corner of Tristran's mouth, as of a smile, at those words. He was shaking, rythmically, as if laughing without a sound.
Then he fell, slowly, an eagle's wing in the wind.

IX.

"Why did you leave?" Dagonet asked Bors, as they were carrying Tristran's limp form back to the barracks.
Bors grumbled and growled and wouldn't say. Then he said it anyway. "Because it made me too sad."

Dagonet looked surprised.
"What do you mean? He showed the legionnaires who was boss, didn't he? How can it be sad?"
"It made me sad," answered Bors, "because I have never seen anyone dance the Eagle more beautifully." And the tone of his voice grew heavy, as if an overwhelming sorrow had suddenly been sparked in the chest of the big man.

"Never!" he repeated. And then he sighed.

"And none of those dimwits in there even grasped it."

End note :

"Excess of sorrow laughs. Excess of joy weeps."

-William Blake-