The Way We Fall

Chapter 122 (Tigris)

Tigris' mind was buzzing pleasantly from all the wine she'd drunk. She wasn't drunk- she wasn't Roche, after all- but she waved away Roche when the maid offered her another goblet of wine. She laughed politely at something one of the delegates said, clasping hands and affirming her belief in their rice and grain products. Even through the haze of alcohol clouding her mind, she kept alert, noting the best merchants tucked within the crowd of political delegates. If tensions ever arose between the kingdom, securing trade would be the first thing the Faultless Kingdom would need to do.

She saw Finn and Aodh similarly engaged with the crowd, the former talking to scholars and merchants alike while Aodh spoke to the esteemed Tseltan generals with an intent gleam to his eyes. This event was as significant as any political treatise meeting might be.

"Tigris,"

Tigris spun around at the sound of her father's voice, dipping into a polite curtsy. "Father," she greeted, conscious of the eyes watching them speak.

The king nodded at her, bidding her to rise. "Are you enjoying the festivities?"

"Yes, my lord." Tigris replied, smiling. We've gathered enough information to fill the library twice over. "This event has been very fruitful."

"Good," the king replied, tilting his head knowingly, "Gather your brothers. We must feast."

Tigris curtsied, wishing it wasn't so wobbly. The moment she rose, a hand was held in front of her face, attached to a goblet. Tigris pushed it away.

"I'm good, Roche,"

"It's water. You need some." Roche replied, her eyes dancing. Tigris scowled but accepted the water gratefully, relaxing a little when her vision cleared. She bit back her thanks, handing off the goblet before going to gather Aodh and Finn. They joined her at the dais, perching on their respective thrones beside their fathers.

The rest of the nobles had been herded into their seats, interspersed with chattering Tseltans. The cacophony of the crowd dimmed as the torches in the back of the room were extinguished methodically. The room darkened until only the front of the room in front of the royal dais and the guest tables was lit. The darkness made Tigris uneasy for a moment, but then the first dancer emerged.

She was somewhere in the throes of middle age, but she moved with the grace and fluidity of someone much younger. Her dress fluttered behind her like a waterfall of fabric, blending into the next dancer that tailed her and another. Together they floated towards the center of the room.

A slow beat began to play from the musicians, and the dancers fluidly dipped into a crouched position, their dresses fluttering. What occurred next was a dance so graceful that Tigris could only compare it to a flowing river of water. The dance was a flurry of silks and long limbs twisting and jumping in tantalisingly fluid motions. They swayed to the beat, holding the crowd into their demonstration of human flexibility, agility, and grace. The dance was spearheaded by the first dancer who had entered the makeshift stage. She was also the first to bow, her hair somehow still held back tightly in a bun after all the dancing. Tigris was envious of that. Her hair always came loose after a long round of sparring. Only Roche's tight buns managed to hold up.

The crowd roared with cheers and applause. Tigris turned, finding her father clapping along enthusiastically, his eyes gleaming with admiration.

"Incredible," he mused aloud, eyes dancing. Tigris noticed the flush in his cheeks, realising with a note of discomfort that it wasn't just the alcohol contributing to the warmth on his face. He stood suddenly, beckoning the dancers over. The first dancer came forward, moving fluidly even though the dance was done like there was rhythm engraved in her bones.