He stands behind Bellamy now, with both hands wrapped around his shoulders, directing him where to look with the nudge of his hands, the murmur of words - do you see? and there - and there - it's not so difficult. The whirl of figures in varicolored cloth, the beautiful, wizened dancer with her scarves and ribbons and boundless energy, the flirting slip of her fingers under Bellamy's chin and the draping of a scarf over his hair. The Darkling laughing, crisp and entertained, as his hands drop lower, fingers curling into Bellamy's.
He narrates a story, of a humble dancer who was beloved by fire. Her ankle broken in a bad tumble, she had woken one morning to find that her company had left her to the cold winter and its merciless nights. Unable to find shelter, she had crawled - gathering kindling into the folds of her dress, and lit a fire barely large enough to stave off the encroaching darkness. Fearful and cold, she had risen to her feet and danced despite the pain. To warm herself, to find her courage. As she danced, the fire grew - and grew - and grew, until the snow around it had melted and the dancer felt her spirits lifted. Day by day, she crawled through the woods and night by night, she danced through her pain, while the fire blazed for her efforts. Until one night, she could not rise to dance. The pain was too great for her to bear, and the fire did not rise to warm her. She pleaded, cold and weak, and stretched out her hand to the wood.
A night more, she asked of the fire, please, one night more -- ]
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[ Such a simple reason.
He stands behind Bellamy now, with both hands wrapped around his shoulders, directing him where to look with the nudge of his hands, the murmur of words - do you see? and there - and there - it's not so difficult. The whirl of figures in varicolored cloth, the beautiful, wizened dancer with her scarves and ribbons and boundless energy, the flirting slip of her fingers under Bellamy's chin and the draping of a scarf over his hair. The Darkling laughing, crisp and entertained, as his hands drop lower, fingers curling into Bellamy's.
He narrates a story, of a humble dancer who was beloved by fire. Her ankle broken in a bad tumble, she had woken one morning to find that her company had left her to the cold winter and its merciless nights. Unable to find shelter, she had crawled - gathering kindling into the folds of her dress, and lit a fire barely large enough to stave off the encroaching darkness. Fearful and cold, she had risen to her feet and danced despite the pain. To warm herself, to find her courage. As she danced, the fire grew - and grew - and grew, until the snow around it had melted and the dancer felt her spirits lifted. Day by day, she crawled through the woods and night by night, she danced through her pain, while the fire blazed for her efforts. Until one night, she could not rise to dance. The pain was too great for her to bear, and the fire did not rise to warm her. She pleaded, cold and weak, and stretched out her hand to the wood.
A night more, she asked of the fire, please, one night more -- ]