#ROARS TO THE HEAVENS ABOUT WY AND EMKE

[cadcnce-archived]

It’s been a good time. Not that you’d ever doubted it would be; as poor of a salesman as Emké may be, you knew if they spoke highly of something, it was no small compliment— and beyond whatever groaning the adherent may have made over the fuss and pageantry, they’d had warm words for the closing celebrations. Good food, good music. She’d promised plainly, and sure enough, the plaza is full with the intoxicating scents of fresh local delicacies, woks sizzling hot over open flames, their crackles and pops marrying with the melody off guitars, marimba, brass instruments and voices; all brought together in joyful noise. Groups gather around the fringes, chatting gleefully, pausing for quick prayers at little hand-made shrines, accompanied by the typical offerings and occasional incense burner, children wave sparklers about, but the main crop of the square is left open, of course, for dancing.

A mix of pre-designed performances and cultural dances that anyone and everyone can join in on, you catch the end of a solo performer’s stint just as the song she’d choreographed draws to a close— a pretty thing with long dark hair neatly pinned into a fancy set of buns, the large rings on her arms clinking as she bows, the scarves which hang off them swaying as she skims the crowd with her eyes and spares a little wink; possibly at you, but just as likely at any other on-looker at your sides and back. A good showing, she deserved the applause she’d received, but did not bask in it long. She clears out as the next thread of rhythm begins, and many voices quiet, distracted glances turning to follow the figure which moves through to the center.

You’ve always thought the adherent didn’t look quite at home without her armor; her vambraces and greaves as much a part of her as the sandy, windswept hair and mismatched eyes; but at least she looks more comfortable now than she had mid-parade, swaddled in heavy ceremonial robes and half-forcing a smile. By comparison, their mild expression now is a hundred fold more genuine, even if they roll their eyes when your gazes meet, (you’re sure they might’ve shrugged a bit, too: yeah, yeah, I know).  But they’re all soft smile and grace as one arm outstretches to invite their partner from the sidelines, an unfamiliar Beralan stepping up to the vestal’s side (looking a touch too excited; you’ll remember to tease them about that later), before they both face each other, and bow.

Then, the dance begins.

The music jumps to life with all the merriness which had stirred moments ago, and the pair finds the rhythm with ease, carefully timed twists, high knees, and kicks, with claps on the beat between turns. It is joyous; and it’s the kind of thing which you could scarcely wear any less than a bright smile in the midst of— hence the unusual brightness in Emké’s features as she maneuvers ‘round her partner, before they both fan out their arms and step back, inviting the immediate onslaught of dancers looking to join; everyone linking hands into a broad circle which side-steps and kicks around the open plaza. It’s a gambol from the very heart of their region; a routine everyone would be taught from whence they were children, to be repeated at festivals, balls, and all manner of celebrations to come. Not so different, you think, than those native to your own homeland, but with a Qasmean flair that could not be overlooked. 

You could not know all the steps, all the intricate details; especially as the circle separates again into partners, and everyone moves with such confidence. This was not your home, these were not your people. You could watch with excitement and mirth, applauding your companion and basking in the revelry of the moment, but it would all be unfamiliar to you. It should be.

But you find your body does know.

It is all new to you, but it isn’t. You find yourself following the motions with the unmistakable taste of nostalgia at the back of your tongue, you know where their feet will fall before they land, you anticipate the next change of partner moments before it arrives, and seemingly cannot stop yourself from falling into the mix— full of the giddiness of joyful memories when you should have none to claim. 

You move as if it were the most natural cycle for your limbs to travel. With all the practiced ease of the native Beralans who’d danced this dance since they were able to balance on two feet, with such divine clarity, as if the overwhelming cacophony on the senses— the aromas, the sounds, the heat of bodies and the breeze— they may as well not have been there at all, spinning through the circuit of partners and back into the circle, you dance and laugh, overwhelmed with delight you’re growing sure is not your own.

  Confirmed, of course, when the next change of partners comes, and you find your partner quirking their brow at you, clearly surprised at how effortlessly you fell in with their festivities, but not missing a single beat as they raise their hand to yours and move through the motions— momentary bewilderment quickly melting back into the glee they’d worn before. That look was the whole point; and you can feel a smile burning deep in your chest leagues brighter than the one on your own features. 

Forgive me, you think she’s said, though the voice at the edge of your mind is anything but repentant. But I could never just stand by and miss a chance to dance with her.

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You knew from the start it was going to be a good time, no, better than that. From the moment the adherent invited you, you knew you’d find yourself all the trouble and enjoyment you desired. Celebrations and festivities are something you latch onto. They’re usually alien and unfamiliar to someone of your ilk, sure, but there’s an ability to forget who you are and what you were during times like this. To shed the burden of your history and embrace that exact present. That precise moment. The people around you find ways to do the same and to celebrate abundance and existence. The taste and smell of it is absolutely intoxicating. The merriment is magnetic. This isn’t your home, but it feels like a place you could call one.

You’ve enjoyed several days worth of happiness and laughter during a single day of festivity. New foods and new people, bonding moments that yes, may be fleeting but you will remember fondly in the future and ponder some what ifs as a treat on warmer nights. You’ve challenged yourself to games you had no inkling of how to play, embraced the many failures just as hard as your first victory against the children teaching you to play while the other adults watch on. Your chest is full of life. Your heart is just a little less cracked among these families.

They welcome you almost as enthusiastically as they welcome your partner. But perhaps it is unfair to compare? The one you know and the one they do aren’t so different after all.

Time isn’t real. It’s something you often think about during your life. Used as a detraction from your choices as a child just as much as a way to embrace your possibilities in the future. Everything is what you make of it. Alas, as much as you want to spend another compressed week of time in these moments the day does drag on. The sun is as real as the moon and the stars. The crackling of fires to illuminate the closing festivities wishing it could bring the amount of warmth that the performers could to everyone’s hearts.

You do watch from the sidelines as you make your way to the center of the festival, this being one of the events you just knew you had to witness for yourself. Dancing is something you picked up as part of etiquette when you trained as a paladin. But as a trait it’s something you evolved into its own unique thing, sampling and taking from your life experiences and everything you cross paths with adding another thought and step. Today could be a dance all on its own.

It would be nice if that young lady’s wink had been directed at you, wouldn’t it? Your foreign appearance and rugged looks are something you believe should be well fancied. Already you welcomed many a flirtation only to fleet away like the devious spirit you are during these festivities. There was far too much to see. Far too much to experience. Just as you can’t fight with just one person in a bar brawl, who would you be to settle with just a single maiden?

Everything about the way Emkè makes her entrance is enough to make you smile three times over. The grace with which she moves, the garb that she wears, the way she takes in the presence she commands. It’s so unnatural from the person that you’ve come to know so well over these years. And yet natural. You’ll embrace these surprises just as you’ll embrace whatever future being around her brings. But you will absolutely not let her live down the sheer excitement her first partner gives on the invitation.

And a familiar smile in the depths of your being seems to have a similar thought. You’ve felt this before, little peeks and glances of a fluttering as you wandered and traveled the offerings of the festival through the day. But now the butterfly has landed, and just as you watch the dance unfold so too does the spirit.

You’d wanted to join in the moment it started, your eyes watch and your ears listen to the sights and sounds as you pull up the rhythm. Your arms and legs, however, act before you know you’re anywhere near ready. An exuberant partner taken by your hand. You move automatically and feel automatically. Any sense of fear over what is transpiring is more than easily masked by the shared exhilaration of the dance. The warmth of this spirit is a familiar one, and one that you know you can trust just as deep as your partner’s.

The sense of anticipation finally breaks as your hands eagerly take the adherent as your next dance partner, and you wish you could stop smiling long enough to show Emkè that you’re just about as surprised about all this as she is. You’re caught in a wave, however, and this tide was carrying you through to whatever end came. It’d make a funny campfire story, if you opted to tell her. But something about the moments you share with her feel like something to be kept to yourself. 

The warmth that fills you as you gaze at Emkè during the flurry of steps is just as unnatural yet embraced as these other sensations. There’s an appreciation for who you’re looking at that goes deeper than anything you’d felt for her before. The spirit within you sees the same powerful woman, a castle of fortitude and strength and compassion. Yet nobody notices the details like she does. You both see a wall, but she loves the moss. She loves the cracks and the life that blooms within each crevice of the stonework. She loves the grass and the soil that comforts its foundation. She loves the wind that cools and gently blows the flowers in the gardens. She loves. She loves. She loves. And for that moment, while you share your body with the spirit, you love too. Unconditionally.

As the next change of partners comes and you release the adherent’s hand you flash a smile much more characteristic of yourself, a toothy grin and a playful flourish of your hand equally uncharacteristic of the dance.

“It was all my pleasure.” You say. To Emkè, to Breala, to this city, and to yourself.