Fanfare

The Night Market

Music blares. Guitar strings blend together to create a soft, smooth rhythm. Drums pound a beat that matches the racing of her heart. The wavering lilt of many flutes lift and soar before dropping, dropping, dropping. Her heart stops with the flutes til they begin again, and she feels as if she is just learning to breathe.

She plays the game she plays, has played, every night since the first. She weaves through the people, her body bending and swaying away. She moves through the bodies without touching them, millimetres from losing. But she doesn't lose. She never does.

She passes stalls selling useless things, jewels that glint and glow as if from within.  Other things made from metal, not so useless. She sees a young girl, about her age; she holds out her hand, and a slip of paper is pressed into her fist, a promise. Then she is being led into the back of a stall, behind wind-blown tarps. Her eyes are narrowed, steel, as a man draws her into the tent, pulling her close. Trenna catches his eye as he presses his lips to her shoulder. And then they're gone; she's dancing past. The ones who sell themselves are none of her business, and she feels guilt for a brief second before other wonders catch her eyes.

Food. Benches and counters covered in it. More food then she has ever seen in her life. Some type of animal, roasted over a small fire. An unidentifiable meat cut into cubes, skewered on slim metal spears. Small, golden cakes dripping with honey, glowing with the amber liquid that pools at their centres. They capture the light of the market, as if holding sparks within them. Then she is dancing past. The sweet scent of the cakes rolls into her mouth. She breathes it in, but it does not linger. Nothing lingers in the market.

She keeps going. People call to her. Dark eyes glitter and gleam, promising pleasure, pain, payment, thievery. And, finally, she reaches the centre of it all; people dance around the fire at the heart of the market. The music here is so loud she can hardly hear herself think, but it's alright, because she doesn't need to. The beating of the drums are her thoughts as she pounds her feet to their rhythm, raises her arms in the air and turns, her head tilting back to look up to the sky. The stars shine overhead like glistening pinpricks of brightness, white and far, far away. She dances close to the fire, the heat licking at her face and fingertips but hardly touching her. She dances closer than the others dare, and closer still, til she feels as if she is dancing inside of it.

And then a hand catches at hers and tugs her from the fire. She spins into the circle of the arms of another, intoxicated by the music, her heart beating in her ears, pounding in her fingertips. She puts her hands against their chest to push off, away, to rejoin the dance instead of being held in this stillness. But they do not let go. They grasp the tops of her arms tighter and give her a small shake. She looks up into piercingly cold eyes, so pale they're usually almost colourless. But something sparks them into life, and fiery blue flames dance within them.

The music's control over her dulls. She blinks. He leans closer to her so she can hear him over the fire and the music and the voices, the laughter and screams. "What are you doing?"

"The same thing as everyone else," she says. She glances to the side, towards where Jack and Anna dance in a circle of hands, spinning, spinning, heads flung back with laughter.

"You shouldn't be here," he says.

"Why not?" she asks, looking up at him defiantly. She notices the fact that his gun is absent. She thinks it's clever not to have it around, in a place so lacking in personal space and boundaries.

He narrows his eyes and says something, but she is drunk on the music, cannot hear him. He shakes her again and then leans close, his breath cool on her feverish skin. "Don't get lost," he says, through gritted teeth.

"Lost? How could I get lost?" The world is a spinning, bright place around her, and she is at the centre, a moth trying to get to the light of the fire.

"Trenna! Look ." He pulls back, his hands gripping her so tightly she's sure she'll have bruises in the morning. But she looks around, beside her, over his shoulder. And she sees the market, a dark place. She hears the music. She hears the screams of pain, pleasure, terror. She sees the people with bright glints in their sapphire eyes, their fingers so fast on the instruments they play that she is lost in the movement. But she is awake, now. The thrall of the market has been broken.

Pierce's fingers press into the flesh of her arms, and she lets out a small sound of pain. He looks at her closely. "Are you with me?" he asks. She realises how close she was to having her wings burnt to a crisp, to catching fire and drifting to the ground, ash sifting through pale, wintry fingers. She nods. His grip relaxes, and his hands slip down her arms. "Good. Now I need you to do everything I say."