A/N: An exploration of sorts on the wilder side of Queen Lucy. This takes place sometime in the Golden Age.
The throbbing pulse of countless drums beat to the time of Lucy's heart. She stands barefoot and bareheaded in naught but a shift as the dryads sway and hum around her. The melody is haunting; without noticing, she too begins to hum, her feet tapping the ground in time with the intricate rhythms.
Leaves are rustling overhead, the ground vibrating underneath, and all around her the dryads dance. Lucy stands in the center as the greens and browns flow together into an unending pattern that seems to go on for all eternity – or perhaps it is a circle, or eternity is a circle, with life never ceasing but always going on forever.
Fingers – or are they branches? – brush Lucy's skin in loving caresses. The green dyes of the leaves and brown of the bark and red of the berries cover her skin in whirling patterns much like the pattern of the dance itself. Lucy examines her hand – it does not look like her hand anymore, disguised as it is in the loops and curliques.
The music increases and Lucy finds that she has become a part of the dance. It matters not that she does not know the steps; somehow she finds her way into the pattern. The melody whispers to her; the trees whisper to her; the earth whispers to her. She is moving so fast everything seems to be a blur in the dull, evening light, and it feels as though she will never stop, will never need to stop. The dance will go on and on, always circling, never ending, never ending...
When she wakes in the morning, it is alone in the glade. The grass is damp with dew, and the dye is smeared from the wild dancing of the night. Her hair is in knots, and although Lucy feels stiff, she is also refreshed.
The sun falls on her through the leaves of the watching trees as she rises to her feet. The air is still and warm, the dewy grass is cool. She wonders how late she slept, and realizes it doesn't matter. Yesterday marked the end of her childhood; today, Lucy is a woman.
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