Luminous

114 - The Dance (2/3)

A string of apologies bursting at her lips, Meya counted the steps until Mum was out of earshot then spun around. Her mouth fell open, but no words left it. Coris stood rigid as stone, staring transfixed at the patch of thin air where Mum was. His hand traveled to his ruffled hair, slow and trembling.

Coris was rarely treated as a little boy. His parents weren't around much while he was a babe. His intelligence and precociousness meant from the time he could talk sense, he was surrounded by adult nobles who treated him as an equal or legitimate threat, and knights he could command to fight wars for him. Meya couldn't imagine even Baroness Sylvia mussing up his head. Sure, Meya often toyed with his hair, but it probably wasn't the same.

He turned to her as she slid her arms around him. They shared a smile, as the doorway shared tantalizing wisps of music from the banquet hall. Before long, Coris swayed to his imagined rhythm. He was even more fidgety than Meya at times.

"Now that you've mentioned it, we haven't danced since," he said. Meya blinked, cocking her head as she reminisced, a smile creeping onto her lips as their second meeting tingled in her limbs like phantom touches.

"Something always happened, eh?" 

Coris whirled her to face him, his hands clamping over her waist.

"Nothing's happening now."

"Wee-Coris is happening, and I dun think he'll take to spinning and twirling!" All too aware of her vomit breath and vomited-over dress, Meya placed her hands firm on his bony chest and pushed hard. Unfortunately, he'd hooked his fingers securely in the soft fat of her middle,

"—So we'll sway. Nice and slow. Rock the babe straight to sleep."

His heart pounded on her palm, betraying the courage he'd mustered for his guise of nonchalance. He truly didn't mind the stench? Hadn't he noticed the damp swathe on her bodice?

As they swayed wider and steadier, Meya gingerly edged close. 'Twas a pain figuring how to rest her head on his shoulder without touching the wet, smelling front of her dress to his tunic. Her resulting posture was akin to hunchbacked old Bailiff Mansfuld.

Coris's sigh blew onto the naked skin over her breasts. He trailed his hand down her unfettered hair to her sleeve then her dress.

"You're—extremely—pretty." He abandoned his attempt at refined poetry, his face flushing as his shoulders fell in defeat. Meya pouted as the pong of diluted sick floated up her nostrils.

"I got watered spew down me front."

"Still pretty. Just stink a wee bit of porridge."

Meya hammered her fist on his chest. Laughing, Coris pressed her back so her soiled front was flush against his. She tensed in terror, yet on he swayed, the song in his head unheeding. 

As he gently assured her, little by little her mind strayed from the cold, stinging damp of her chest to the soothing, lukewarm heat of his embrace, and the Song flowed out of her.

"Deep in the heart of the Woodland Realm.

In the ashen keep, stood an oaken seat.

Worn smooth as ice and white as bone.

For a hundred kings lasted Woodland Throne.

What the wood remembers, so the leaves whisper.

What the wood remembers, so the winds speak."

The Woodland Throne wove a hundred songs from a hundred reigns. Meya had picked the tale of an intrepid young prince, who felt imprisoned in his castle ensconced in the arms of the lush, dense forest. He longed to see sand plains where azure skies never rained, sail to islands so far-flung the winds could no longer push his ship.