#cries in vama allo flamenco

[elfyourmother]

Prompt #16: Jitter

Standing within the circle of stones, the only rhythm Gisele could perceive was the steady clinking of the golden charms on her bracelet against the razor sharp steel of her chakrams. Her heart pounded an even faster one within her ears, her bronze skin glistening with beads of sweat upon her brow before she’d even taken a single step.

One might never guess that such a woman as she would be so disconcerted upon a stage; not Gisele, who craved attention as others craved air or water, a woman who performed in every sense of the word for a myriad of lovers without an onze of shame, a woman who thrilled to have eyes upon her, enthralled and enchanted. One would expect it even less of a woman who stood upon far greater stages than this humble beach of Costa del Sol: Fort Drakon in burning Denerim, the Praetorium, the Steps of Faith, the Nadaam field upon the Azim Steppe, the Royal Menagerie of Ala Mhigo.

The stakes were tremendous in each of these battles, and many more, yet in each of these struggles, Gisele never faltered as she did now, with the wealthy Lalafell’s eyes upon her. The fate of nations was naught beside the fate of one small Hannish dancing troupe, yet Gisele felt the dire gravity of it all the same, and she held it in the palm of her silken hand. One false step, and their fortunes would be sealed. Gisele could not afford the missteps of green novices, but Troupe Falsiam truly could not.

But she did not come to this pivotal moment blind and flailing. Mistress Nashmeira was as hard a taskmistress as she had ever known, but she relished the challenge, and took to her crash lessons in short order. In truth, Gisele welcomed the distraction of learning a new Art; it was better than idly awaiting word from Cid and his Ironworks regarding their search for the beacon with nerves fraught and frayed. And she threw herself into it with abandon as she always did, practicing with every free moment, hours upon hours repeating the drills Nashmeira imparted to her until her arms felt like lead, her legs were near to collapsing, and her delicate feet were bloodied and blistered more than they had even been in battle.

These things, she thought upon, as her blood raced and she could scarce hear Ranaa’s instructions in quiet conference even with the sharpness of Elezen ears. Again and again, she remembered the toil of her lessons, of the endless practice. She mused in silence, calming herself.

She chose you for a reason. You have trained and trained nigh unto madness; these steps live within you as air, or light. Trust in the Kriegstanz, trust in your Art!

Gisele closed her eyes, taking a deep and steadying breath.

And when the drums and the timpani stirred, the flautists raised their pipes, and seductive yearnings beckoned through strings, Gisele raised her head high, and held her chakram aloft to the light, with her gilded sandals pointed just so, as Nashmeira taught her.

Across the stone circle of that makeshift stage, Ranaa grinned in approval.

And Troupe Falsiam would know the worth of the Warrior of Light, even as their prospective patron would know it, that day beneath the burning La Noscean sun.