Speaking of Merle, I would like to apologize if she's OOC. I don't know her character very well, so please forgive if she's off.
IMPORTANTLY: This one-shot follows the events of my previous story To Mend the Rose, which was just completed. It's not necessary to have read TMtR, but if you haven't, here's briefly what happened:
Dilandau deserted the Zaibach army in ep. 25 just before the huge, nasty final battle at the end. Remember the tent scene? He deserts there. Long story short, he hooks up with Van and Allen after a series of very weird, twisted events. The madoushi are brought to justice, Dilandau gets a bit of piece of mind, begins the slow process of recovery, is pardoned, and Allen is now his legal guardian.
Also note that this is completely unbetad. Therefore, it probably has mistakes that I didn't catch in them. I'm bad at catching my own mistakes, so I appologize.
Now, on with the story!
DANCE IN SHADOWS by Feye Morgan
Dancing was thought in many cultures to ward away evil spirits and fortunes. Perhaps that was the reason that the streets of Palas were filled on the evening before the turn of the old year into the new. Children without parents, siblings without siblings, mothers without children, all danced in the streets and gazed into the skies to place their hopes upon the stars. After a year like the last, filled with fire, war, and loss, everyone was hoping for a year of peace to follow.
And so they danced.
Vendors kept their shops open long past closing time, dancing in their own way every time coins clicked into their baskets. Children took advantage of the growing dark to play 'shadow catch,' muffling their giggles and watching with bright eyes every time a mother or father called for one of them.
Even those who did not believe in spirits danced.
Save for one solitary figure perched high above the noise and lights.
Dilandau Albatou dangled his long legs down the steep slope of a tiled portion of the Palace roof. The base of his feet supported him and kept him from sliding down to the ground so far below. In the streets the air was humid, thick and stagnant even for all of the motion whisking through it. But up on the rooftop, closer than ever to the stars being so avidly gazed upon by the rest of the population, the air was cool and brisk. A light breeze ruffled silver hair, and a full moon caught the shadowed sunlight and cast it down upon a pad of paper, giving just enough light for the boy to indulge in his hobby.
Dilandau and the moon understood each other. Each reflected the light of something so much more dearly beloved. Late at night when the rest of Palas slumbered on and waited for the rays of the sun, Dilandau crept up to the rooftop and conversed in silence with the moon.
The streets made a pretty sight when viewed from above. That was why Dilandau had his sketchbook balanced in his lap and a slender charcoal stick in his left hand. The distant rumble of the crowd was drowned by the scritching of tiny grains against paper. He was drawing in the shadows of the streets and the sky below, varying the pressure his hand gave to paint different shades of grey. Getting the shapes and contours was not the hard part. Dilandau was attempting to capture the movement and flow of the lights and people below. In his own opinion, he was not doing a very good job. He leaned forward, crimson eyes squinting in the dark to refine the details in his mind.
"Uwaaa!" he yelped as one foot slipped free of its secure hold on the tiles. Fingers clamped down for a secure hold, his body leaned back, feet dug into the roof, and knees caught the dangerously tilting sketchbook. After a tense moment, he breathed out. His head fell back--thunk--on the tiles, and he gazed up at the moon. They stared at each other for a long moment, and Dilandau lost to its unblinking gaze. His mouth pressed into a thin line of frustration. "I lost my charcoal," he muttered up at the glowing orb. "Not much you can do, huh?" He gazed up for a moment longer in silence. "Nope. I didn't think so."
Dilandau sat up, tucked his sketchbook under an arm, and peered over the edge of the roof, hoping that perhaps the stick of charcoal had caught on a close ledge. It would be broken, of course, but it had been a long piece, and he could utilize very small portions to suit his needs just fine.
He leaned closer to the edge.
"Looking for something?" a voice intoned as a half-length stick of charcoal was shoved into his face by a hand extending from the darkness below.
Dilandau jerked back, startled in spite of himself. He shuffled away from the edge of the roof, ruby eyes wide and slightly annoyed, but curious as to who had discovered his hiding place.
Another hand slipped up into view, clawing securely into the tiles, and hoisting a red-orange, familiar body into view.
Dilandau blinked with surprise. He remained silent.
Merle stared at him with slitted blue eyes. "Hey, don't I get any thanks for saving this thing of yours?" she growled at him, once more shoving the charcoal at him.
Dilandau took the offered utensil after a moment of hesitation. "Thanks," he said in a muffled tone. He was annoyed at the company. He hadn't wanted anyone else around, much preferring the solitude and companionship of the moon alone as he drew his shadows in silence. He bowed his head back down to his paper and clutched the charcoal in his hand. He stared determinedly.
But it was no use. He'd lost his concentration. And he could not focus with those eyes on him!
His silver head snapped back up. Angry red met glacial blue. Dilandau tapped his fingers impatiently on his sketchbook. "Well? What do you want?" he growled.
Merle glared at him. Her tail swished angrily, disrupting the albino's view of he streets below. "Why don't you use your manners," she snapped back, "and maybe I'll answer you. Or don't you know what 'manners' are? Barbaric psychopath."
"Psychotic," Dilandau corrected absently before considering her words. Maybe if I ignore her, she'll lose interest and go away.
He thought about it for a moment, and then discarded the option. She'd come up here for a reason, obviously, and cats weren't prone to being agreeable in his experience. If she knew her presence was irritating to him, and was annoyed with him, she'd stay for the sheer pleasure of making him twitch.
Besides, even if she did leave, she'd already broken his concentration.
With a sigh, Dilandau slipped the charcoal into its pocket on the front of his sketchbook and folded his arms over the cover. He looked at the cat-girl. "All right," he said cooly. "Do you mind if I inquire as to the purpose of your presence upon this lovely rooftop tonight?"
Merle's ears flattened with the weight of the obvious sarcasm in the boy's voice. She tapped her foot and crossed her arms over her chest.
Dilandau rolled his eyes and succumbed to honest conversation. "Hey, I wasn't exactly looking for company, you know. So what are you doing up here? Why aren't you down there with everyone else, celebrating?"
Merle's tail swished again. "I was bored," she said, taking an unoffered seat on the tiles beside the albino. "I didn't care for all the noise and lights. And Van disappeared in the crowd with Allen. Shopping for something or another," Merle snorted.
Dilandau waited out the silence that followed, having nothing to say but certain that his unwanted companion did.
"Anyway, I saw you up here on the roof," she continued. Dilandau glanced at her, eyebrow cocked in askance. She looked back at him. "Well, I wondered why you weren't down in the crowds with everyone else. You aren't as hidden as you'd like to think you are, you know. Cat's eyes are excellent," she said with a smirk. An orange finger tapped the fur next to one blue eye. "So why aren't you down there with everyone else? I'd have thought you'd glow in the attention. Everyone knows who you are."
"Funny," Dilandau said, inspecting his fingers, "I'd have thought the same thing about you. Cats and attention. Clearly we don't know each other as well as we'd like to think we do." His speech included himself in the statement, his his eyes and the inflection in his voice made it clear that he was incriminating Merle as the main perpetrator in the crime.
Merle's fur bristled. Dilandau ignored her. He chose to gaze at the moon and wait until she'd calmed down enough to break the blessed silence once more.
But she didn't. The minutes passed, and the moon grew blurry in Dilandau's eyes. His thoughts focused outside of the plane of his sight, and his ears listened for any sound of movement from the girl next to him. Finally, his resolve broke, and he tilted his head to look at her.
She was sitting forward and gazing intently at the sketchbook on his lap. The cover was closed, and he could tell that her paws were itching to grab it. Dilandau frowned and made as if to sit up and secure the book. But Merle was too quick, and snatched the sketchbook off of his lap, dancing away across the rooftop with it.
"HEY!" Dilandau yelled, leaping to his feet. "Give that back!"
Merle grinned mischievously at him, clutching the book to her chest. "See if you can catch me for it!" Tail swishing, she leapt up to perch upon a dome-like pinnacle ten feet above him. Dilandau reached the edge and glared up at her. The sides were too smooth to climb, and he couldn't jump high enough to get a handhold--not unless he was a cat-person like Merle.
"Give that back," he gritted.
Merle grinned wider, eyes narrowing with self-satisfaction. "So what have you got in here?" she asked, flipping open the cover.
"Don't you dare!" Dilandau beat on the pillar with his fists. His ruby eyes burned fiercely with anger and embarrassment.
But Merle wasn't listening any longer. She was staring wide-eyed at the pictures inside of the sketchbook, slowly turning page after page with delicate, gentle claws. After several moments, she looked up and gazed down at the angry young man. "You drew these?"
"No," Dilandau snapped. "I hired the Queen's artists to draw them for me so I could show them off to the ghosts! Yes, of course I drew them, you idiotic fuzz-ball!"
This time Merle didn't seem as affronted by the verbal assault. Her curiosity had latched onto him. She smelled something interesting, and she was going to follow it. She flipped through a few more pages. "Who are these people?" she asked curiously.
Dilandau knew who she was talking about. "Those were my Dragonslayers," he said stiffly.
Merle blinked down at the pages. Distaste pulled at her mouth, but she pushed it away. She studied the pictures more carefully. "They look..." she frowned, searching for a the words.
"Like children?" Dilandau supplied wryly. "Like they're human? Yeah. Completely shocking, huh?" Bitterness crept into his voice.
Merle glared at him but did not comment. Instead she looked back through the sketchbook, flipping through each and every picture while the frustrated boy watched helplessly from below. She passed through the pictures of the Dragonslayers, paused for longer moments at the sketches of a light-haired, grey or silver-eyed girl holding a white rose. Merle stopped on the last picture, the one Dilandau had been working on when she had climbed up to the rooftop. Her blue eyes narrowed in study.
"Yes, they're terrible. I know," Dilandau called up in irritation. "Now just give them back instead of mocking me."
"I never said that I didn't like them," Merle yelled down hotly.
Dilandau blinked. He opened his mouth and then closed it. He tried again. "You mean..."
Merle leapt down from her perch and held the sketchbook to him, the leafs open to the page he'd been working on. Dilandau took it back numbly and waited for an answer. Merle padded over to her previous perch and sat down. After a moment, Dilandau joined her, peering at her curiously. Neither of them said anything for a long moment. The cat girl stared out at the streets, watching the people dance and the lights wave and flicker in movement.
"Your shadows are too sharp," she said after a while.
Dilandau blinked, startled. "What?"
"Your shadows." She looked away from the streets this time and pointed to a section of his sketch. "See here? You've blocked in the lights and darks on the streets and lamps too clearly. Look down at the street."
Puzzled, Dilandau did so.
"It's not clear at all. That's what movement does. That torch high up? See how it flickers? It's blurry. You've drawn it in as a single, momentary flame. That won't do at all. Same for the people in the streets. They're moving and dancing, so their figures are blurry too."
Silver eyebrows rose in revelation. His head turned to look at Merle with an expression of wonder, curiosity, and confusion.
Merle's tail flicked in annoyance. "Well? Why aren't you listening? Start sketching!" Blue eyes flicked into his and away, refocusing on the people down below.
Dilandau retrieved his charcoal from its pocket and stared at his drawing. She...she likes my sketches, he realized with shock. He recalled the time when he'd been shuttered away in the Palace hospital--to recover from his assault wounds--that Van had caught him sketching too. The boy-king had commented on how good Dilandau was. The silver-haired boy hadn't believed him at the time. He'd thought Van had been trying to butter him up so that he'd accept the mission that he, Allen, and Dryden had cooked up. Dilandau had shrugged the comments off and cast them away into locked and undusted compartments of his memory.
Maybe I'm not that terrible after all.
His charcoal began to move over the paper once more. He blurred the solid black lines, smudged and erased with his shirtsleeves to create the illusion of light weaving amongst the crowd. Merle would glance over his arm and point out what she thought needed changing. When she said nothing at all, Dilandau knew that she liked what she saw. Merle's tail swished back and forth over the tiles, and her eyes half-lidded as song began to rise into the cool air to reach them. Her paws tapped absently in time, and the moonlight flickered off of her claws.
Dilandau didn't even hear the music. His head was wreathed in light, his hands ghostly pale against the smudges of black on his skin and on the paper. A light smile curved his lips.
Everyone danced that night in Palas, whether out in the streets to a wild, free beat, indoors to the soft tunes of a piano waltz, or just with the jump of a tail and the twitch of fingers. Even high above everything else, Dilandau Albatou danced. His hands waved and jumped over the sketchbook page, pulling music and life from the flat surface. Bathed in the light of the moon, he danced in shadows.
--END--