Dancing was a thoughtless memory and she sunk into it. It started with a soundless rhythm beating into her strained calves, creeping upward. Her arms twisted and bent obediently. Legs and feet flashed in and out, and somehow though the mind was bewildered the body just knew because dance was invisible and its hands were gently prompting and she had learned how to oblige.
Freya could hardly believe she was dancing again. A month ago, she would have denied such a thing could happen. Now she felt strange weaving in and out between Cleyrian dancers with wrists arched elegantly and prancing feet. It could have been the magic of the sandstorm humming through her veins. But she knew better. It was memory, deep within the silver lining of her bones, having bided its time, waiting to possess.
Despite the joyful thrum of blood in her veins, there was bitterness in her mouth too.
When she was a child, she danced. She took lessons. The ballroom was a shabby stone corridor and her partner a harried housekeeper who nonetheless took her through the complicated twists and turns of several ancient rituals. Such dances had once been sacred arts of worship but by the time she had been instructed it was another of many things that singled her out among her peers.
She was not a natural. She stubbed toes and bruised shins. The boys made fun of her awkward shuffle, called her tumble weed and pondered loudly among themselves why she was still trying. The girls, jealous of her Page status, tittered at her every gesture and word and ignored her every entreaty. It felt like the world within the span of Burmecian rainclouds was indifferent. And she was angry. So angry to find such opposition, because weren't dreams supposed to be chased after?
No one seemed to understand. Especially not Fratley. For him, it was duty. His father and his father and his father had been Dragoons. And he was good at everything he tried while she was terrible at all the things she really wanted.
But he did practice with her.
She remembered Fratley's hands on her shoulders, urging her into her steps with his calm patience. Ghosting fingers against her skin. He had had to learn it, he told her, and so did she. Knowledge for the sake of knowledge, he said, because maybe one day you'll need it. Maybe one day it will make a difference.
She had scoffed then. At the end of the day, a Dragoon was a prettily dressed weapon. She was not even that, a scarred and pitted knife made for work that no one wanted. She would never be the timeless creature much adored and loved by all Burmecians. And she had fought every step and twist in the attempt to become it.
And yet here she was now, wrists and ankles bent for the most sacred dance of all. A dragoon and a dancer and a girl, a body of dichotomies It was strange, this churning in her stomach. She wanted to smile and to cry. She wanted to run to Fratley and shake him, even though he didn't know her and wouldn't know why.
He had been right. She needed this. With this one moment, she could forgive them. Not the boys who didn't know better, or the girls who cared too much, or the teachers who refused to see.
But herself, for not believing. And Frately, for forgetting he had.
As expected, it ended all too soon. The string of the harp snapped. The howling outside the door died. But even as the moment ended, she knew something had changed. She felt the mantle of the Dragoon settle on her shoulders in a way it never had as her King and her people watched her dash after the Alexandrian enemy. She would fight for their right to live. And with that, it all came full circle
For she had been right too, just a little. A dragoon was a weapon. She was a blade, a little tarnished, doing the job that no one could.
