Rue

By Zara Wilder

The Great Hall was arranged to suit the needs of the dancer. Tables stood close to the stone walls, tall wooden or iron candle stands flanking the dining furniture in a ring around the open space at the center of the cavern. Candles--dozens, perhaps hundreds of candles--lit the room with motes of fire. The effect was one of warmth and enchantment.

In the cleared space at the center of the Hall, Lisa was dancing. Her steps took her left and right, and into a simple twirl, her arms held in graceful lines at shoulder-level, then rising above her head as she spun across her makeshift stage toward her audience of one. A youthful Vincent stood on the stair, which led up to the secondary entrance to the Hall, past the tapestries to a small entryway unassailed by air currents from the Chamber of the Winds. Vincent watched Lisa's every movement, his right hand pressed to the stone pillar at the lowest end of the wooden stair railing. He leaned slightly upon that hand, poised and attentive. At that moment, the only thing in Vincent's world was Lisa.

While she danced, he admired the perfection of her body: her flawless skin with its tones of soft peach and pink rose and smooth cream, her shining brown hair which was pulled back today into a decorative knot at the back of her head, her tresses flowing from the knot in a controlled ponytail, her strong muscles flexing and shifting beneath her skin as she performed each fluid movement of her dance. Vincent also admired her imaginative dedication to her art, for he could perceive the joy she felt in exercising her skills, the intensity of her concentration as she executed the choreography.

Lisa lifted her arms and swept them toward Vincent once, twice, then turned and repeated the gesture in the opposite direction. Her dance shimmered in Vincent's soul. Moments later, after he had descended the stair to stand upon Lisa's stage, Vincent became a model for the male partner in Lisa's ballet. He stood where she wanted him to stand and he adored her. He felt that this vision before him was breathtaking. Her delight was his delight.

They were young, innocent, working and playing at the same time, two childhood playmates from the same undercity realm, spending a few hours together on an ordinary day. Vincent wore an open-fronted tunic with loose short sleeves, layered over a gray patchwork vest pieced from triangular scraps, and a dark wool long-sleeved shirt. His boots came up to the calf and covered the plain fabric of his pantlegs. Leather straps wrapped around his wrists and forearms restrained the loose sleeves of his shirt, and a wide belt with a circular buckle held his tunic closed at the waist. His golden mane drifted past his shoulders and the play of light over his hair shifted as he moved his head to the rhythm of Lisa's dance.

Lisa was dressed in her ballet costume. The bodice of her dress was fashioned from scraps of white fabric stitched with brown yarn. The narrow straps over her shoulders were adorned with delicate tapered strips of cotton gauze voile salvaged from old window curtains. Her skirt was made from longer strips of the same. She wore white tights and white ballet flats. As she moved, the sheer fabric strips fluttered and floated, revealing glimpses of her legs and upper arms. Her face was serene, her smile graceful.

Vincent saw her skirt swirl around her hips and legs like a cloud as she spun in front of him, reaching her arms upward, forward and back, in circles that drew her closer to him with their momentum. In perfect balance, Lisa stepped yet nearer, leaving a space of mere inches between herself and her stationary partner. Her arms swept up toward Vincent's shoulders, as though to embrace him. Vincent responded by reaching for her, meaning to take her by the waist, but Lisa glided away from him like an expert swimmer through calm water. Vincent lowered his hands, not disappointed, but smiling a little in wonder at Lisa's quickness, her lithe energy and physical form.

He closed his hands into loose fists, his palms imagining the delicate textures of her dress and the pliant warmth of her pale skin. Now she tip-toed toward him again, moving to his side and slipping behind him. Vincent pressed his hands flat against the lower hem of his tunic, drying the sweat from his palms, containing the desire he felt growing within himself.

Lisa touched his arm lightly and her face appeared over Vincent's left shoulder. Her smile was bright, winsome. Vincent turned to look and Lisa ducked behind him, touching his right arm and smiling now over his right shoulder. Vincent slowly turned his head, glanced at her face, and then Lisa slipped behind him again.

This time, she completed her circling, emerging from behind Vincent's left side while he gazed at her with gentle affection. Her smile became a little teasing, a little self-conscious, as she stopped inches in front of him yet again. She twirled, bending her elbows to pull her arms close to her torso. Coming out of her spin, she circled Vincent once more, brushing his right shoulder with her hand as she went, gliding away backward, so Vincent never lost sight of her face as he reached his hand out for her a second time--and then returned his empty hand to his side.

The cavern contained sparks of light fed by a multitude of candlewicks. The lilting music haunted the air between them. Vincent watched Lisa and knew she was beautiful. He wanted to touch the lively spirit who danced in this place for him--with him. His mouth was curved into a wistful smile. His blue eyes were bright with longing.

Then, his dancer stopped her spins and turns. With measured steps, she walked lightly to him, her gaze meeting his, her lips parted and half-smiling. She stood near him with the slight space of the dance between them. Lisa leaned across that sparse separation to touch her cheek to his, first on the right side, then the left. Did he feel the faintest touch of her lips? Lisa was savoring their friendship and her dance at the same moment. The second time she brushed her face against his, she lingered there. She did not dance away.

Vincent's hands stole forward, caressing Lisa's arms, moving upward beneath the gossamer strips fluttering from her shoulders. Her hands had found his waist. He could feel the sweet pressure of her touch at his hips. She leaned nearer and the distance between them was gone. The incomplete embrace brought them breast to breast and Vincent wanted to hold her close.

"Lisa," he murmured, closing his eyes.

He loved her. He had never been so intimately near to her. His hands left her arms, seeking new sensations and a better hold across her back. His left hand found Lisa's shoulder blade, a flat bone forming rounded angles above her ribs. He tightened the embrace.

Suddenly, as he drew her body to his, Lisa tensed. She squirmed against his chest, trying to pull away. The dance had stopped, the choreography interrupted. The ballerina spoke: "Let go of me."

She could not slip out of Vincent's grasp. Vincent said nothing. He was lost. Lost in the scent of her hair, the exquisite movements of her flesh beneath his hands, the way she had smiled into his face. He held her.

"Stop," Lisa said, alarm rising in her voice. Her arms slid up and she tried to lever herself away by pushing at Vincent's chest.

His strong arms held her. His left hand lifted to cup the back of her head. For the briefest moment, Vincent felt the knot of her hair and the rawhide cord binding it in place. He felt the round shape of her skull and her soft tresses. It was the more he had been seeking, the wondrous novelty of this young woman's myriad mysteries beneath his hands. His palm followed the line of her hair down her back until he was touching skin again.

Lisa's struggles became desperate, endangering the balance of both. "No!" she cried, in real fear. Now she jerked out of his grip, screaming with sudden pain and fright. As she moved so unexpectedly, Vincent's sharp claws had raked the back of her right shoulder. Blood welled up in the parallel scratches. His claws slit the shoulder strap of her dress. The sleeving strap fell away in two pieces, fully exposing her arm. Lisa backpedaled across the cavern floor until she had secured several strides' worth of emptiness between them. She reached behind her shoulder to touch the wounds. Her face was frightened and hurt and confused.

Horrified, Vincent looked from the girl to his claws. He held out his hands. Candlelight winked at him from the sharp points of his nails. He gaped, not believing what he had done. But one look at Lisa, still standing with her hand covering her bared and bleeding shoulder, told Vincent that this was real. He had hurt her. He had marred her perfect body with his touch. She stared at him, silent, shocked. He had frightened her badly.

Vincent spoke her name. It was the only word he could speak. What else could he possibly say? How could this ever have happened? In agony, knowing himself a criminal against his dearest, most beautiful friend, he stepped toward her. Was it his intention to comfort her? To beg forgiveness of her? He didn't know. Vincent knew only that he must connect somehow, he must not lose the pleasure and the trust they had shared.

Lisa took a quick step backward.

At once, he moved toward her again and from behind him, from beyond the shattered boundaries of his inner world, a hand reached out to grip his right shoulder. Startled, scared, Vincent whirled with a growl, raising his right hand in reflex, preparing to fend off whatever had come upon him unawares.

"No, Vincent!" Father shouted, and the blow never fell. Vincent recognized Father's voice, his face, his presence. Father's warning cut through the clamor in Vincent's mind just as Father's hands caught hold of his adopted son. Reflex persisted: Vincent lunged away, not lowering his threatening paw.

"No," Father repeated firmly. He shook his head for emphasis.

New horror dawned in Vincent's heart. He had harmed Lisa; he had also nearly harmed Father. He lowered his hand--his monstrous, clawed hand. Father saw the anguish in Vincent's eyes. He caressed his son's head.

"No." It was a negation of every action Vincent could think to perform, as well as every act he might commit without thinking. Vincent fell into Father's embrace, already weeping. He gripped Father's elbow and cried silently. Father's right hand stroked Vincent's mane while his left hand held him solidly across the back of his neck. Vincent thought he might die of shame.

Across the Hall, Lisa stood watching them, hand to shoulder, but body relaxed. Her face was not serene now. She seemed uncertain of how to regard the plight of her childhood companion--or even of her own isolation--as she waited for Vincent and Father to take notice of her again. The encounter had ruptured her dreamy persona and ended the rehearsal of her dance. A boy she had long loved as a special friend and surrogate brother had proven himself to be--something else. And now, things had changed for everyone. Lisa turned her eyes downward, looking away from Vincent, studying the stone floor.

Safe in his father's arms, Vincent was sobbing.