The language of the Saints

Excerpt from an upcoming story...

„Oh, this is my favourite Waltz!" I closed my eyes and hummed the melody enjoying every note that is being played. A soft hand touches my upper arm and wakes me up from my trance by bringing me back to reality. He looks at me with a slight smile and glassy eyes. "Would you like to dance with me?" I was taken aback at first. Even if it is just a dance and a waltz, it felt so intimate even in a marriage. Sharing my love for this particular waltz was something I wouldn't want to share with anybody. The melody would take hold of me and having someone so near to me when it happened... I would usually stand in a corner and let go of my torturing thoughts while listening to it. But on the other hand, it would make this situation more uncomfortable if I declined. So, I gave him a shy nod and we went to the podium. My heart raced and I truly hoped he wouldn't notice it in my fingertips or while we were dancing. He turned to me and took me by the waist, waiting for my hand to position itself on his shoulder. There was no going back now and the room between us was getting smaller by the moment. I ignored it, almost even him, and let my body move to the all too well-known rhythm and melody of the waltz. At some point, I just closed my eyes and gave myself up to the melody.

I felt him nearing to my ear, his breath caressing my too sensitive neck. "You look so beautiful." At that, I opened my eyes and watched him playing with on curled hair strand. My lounges threatened to shutter und the pressure. Even a breath would give me and my anticipation of this moment away. I looked down shyly and the blush on my cheeks had to have gone red. The waltz ended and I stepped away from him to catch a breath from the air we do not share. I look at him one more time, hiding my gaze beneath my lashes. I hate it. I hate the fact that I couldn't run away as the princesses do it in the plays. And even if I did, I had to face him after that... He looked at me with a crooked smile and took my hand, interlacing his fingers with mine and kissed the back of my gloved hand.

When my silence got a bit too long even for my standards, I replied. "Thank you for the dance!", and at that, my brain stopped. What am I supposed to say next? Oh, and thank you for the compliment?

He let go of my hand only to take me by the waist once more and kissed me on the forehead like some godforsaken child. But this situation only made me realise that I am really bad at taking compliments and you know the rest. I looked up at him and his gaze suddenly switched from a cocky prince to concern and sadness. He let go of me for the last time and marched through the crowd. I didn't see him for the rest of the evening and I just could not stop blaming myself. He probably felt awkward by my silence and getting no reply from me.

After I went through all the possible reasons why he disappeared and came to the conclusion that it was not my fault if I am not as affectionated by him as he was by me. He is just a princeling not used to being deceived or said no to. I was not so stupid to believe that we danced only because our parents wanted us to be already acquainted with each other before we were to bewed. I know all about the unromantic nature of a royal marriage. I made peace with it a long time ago. But for him to actually try to maybe make it something more, stunned me more than his actual compliment. Men have complimented my beauty often enough, but they were never a potential partner. The men from higher ranks, who were all decent candidates would publicly display their disinterest for me. Even if I don't feel any sort of love, desire passion or whatever it is to make a romantic relationship truly romantic, I might at least feel a sense of care and I do care about him. 

3rd Person

When he appeared again, he didn't walk in her direction but he went to his families' table and stood there almost like a solider. Dannika strode to him and thought about how she was going to ask him why he left her so abruptly. When she finally reached him, he seemed not to acknowledge her and stared at something in the far. Then he stepped beside her and took out his dagger. Her confusion grew as she watched him cutting his palms without any signs of pain. The blood dripped from his palms on the recently polished marble floor. She panicked:" What are you doing? Are you insane? You are going to need stitches..." He ignored her effortlessly and started to say what she might have considered as a prayer. Maybe a tradition from his homeland. But as silly as it sounds, the words made her feel uncomfortable. "What kind of prayer is this? Is it in your mother tongue?" He didn't reply and continued to prey. The sounds of these words were so strange, like the scratching of a blackboard and with too many consonants. Dannika hated the language. She couldn't shake off the uncanny feeling while watching him prey with his bloody palms. Her head felt like it was going to explode under some kind of pressure and at the sight of the still dripping blood, she almost fainted. The pain in her forehead was unbearable.