A dance

Vaeri didn’t want to dance or drink with him, but it would be worth it to be done with him. A Meazyr’s word of honor held weight. She reluctantly returned his knife to him and checked on her cousin briefly. His scarred face had looked sour when she insisted on it. Tandas, at least, seemed unharmed, he snored softly on the carriage floor. She tried to untwist his legs and arrange him on his side.

 

When she stepped back out of the carriage, the scarred Meazyr was staring at her with an expression she could not place. He looked as though he’d had a very bad hunting trip, with his rent hunting clothes and his green-black blood showing on them. He took her arm, wrapping it around his left one, carrying himself as if he were wearing something finer than a coat of flowers.

 

This close, she noticed that the hand he was wearing was different that the one she had seen briefly before. This one had hardened leathered plates up the arm and the hand itself while still metal and finely and cleverly worked, was not polished until it gleamed.

 

“How many spare hands do you have?” She inquired coolly, half hoping to give offense.

 

She heard him laugh in his throat. “Dree. Je like my jagthandt? It is not as beautiful as de first but-” He pulled his arm away and held it across his chest pointed away from her letting her watch as he made a similar gesture to the one he had made before. A short blade shot forward and the sides of the top of the hand sprang open letting short curved blades extend from the edges. He offered it carefully for her inspection.

 

At a loss for what to say she opted for honesty, “It’s beautiful. It looks deadly.” She could feel her cheeks coloring as he grinned.

 

“Come to my home ent I will show je de letzte.” He pressed the fingers of his right hand underneath the glove while moving his thumb and the blades slid back into place smoothly.

 

“Why didn’t you bring it?” She tried to make her inquiry sound politely disinterested.

 

“It’s for war, Zoldendochterblum.” He pulled her hand onto the top of his deadly glove and brought it to his lips, breathing on the back of her hand and running his lips across it before kissing it and walking purposefully with her toward the farthest tents.

 

The way he had kissed her hand she had struggled not to pull her arm away, it made her want to run in the opposite direction. The fine hairs on the back of her neck had raised. She let him draw her along to the tents, wishing she had not given in so easily.

 

The tent he chose was open and empty, low jewel colored cushions were clustered against one side. The music could be heard but only softly.

 

“Mina brotter bringt mina bludtmet. Sit witt me ent wait? I would have jer kamratskaft.” He wrapped his left arm around her and tried to pull her toward the cushions.

 

She stood still.

 

“I would prefer to dance, so that after we drink I can give you my answer and leave.” She looked at him cautiously.

 

His disappointment was palpable but he stopped pulling and walked to the cushions alone. She watched him with his back toward her until he turned, dropping his glove to the cushions unceremoniously.

 

“I would touch je.” She saw him looking at her for signs of disgust or disapproval.

 

“Your hand does not disgust me. Your temper and your willingness to corner me or hold me against my will, however…” She trailed off. He was looking at her as if she had said something he had been wanting to hear.

 

She sighed and shook her head. He came closer and took her right hand in his left, she curled her fingers around his two and held them gently as he extended his arm. His right hand caressed her arm and pulled it to his shoulder before he pulled her closer pressing his hand into her back.

 

“Kenst de jagtschritt?” He murmured it into the jeweled flowers in her hair.

 

“Yes.” She could feel her face reddening. “But I haven’t-”

 

The new song started and he began moving. He came forward and turned, his movements careful letting her remember the steps, the motions. Each round, each turn on the floor became more insistent as did the music. The hunting step required both dancers to be as present in the moment as predator and prey in the wood. He hunted her around the floor with hunger and desire, and she evaded gracefully. As the music began to slow and the pace of the dance waned again, he murmured into her ear, “Why do je smell of meaza, Zoldendochterblum?”

 

Vaeri didn’t answer until the music came to a stop, speaking as softly as falling ash, “My father used meaza oil on his weapons and armour. I-when he was killed at Vells, I missed him. Bitterly. I mix a few drops in with the oil I use on my skin, to remember.” The hard lump in her throat brought her to silence.

 

He released her reluctantly and stepped back looking at her with an unreadable expression. Grimeindprinz interrupted with the bottle of bludtmet, praising his brother’s skill in the hunting step, allowing her to collect herself.

 

Author's Note

“Kenst de jagtschritt?” - Do you know the hunting step?