[ The Concordian people have been fed on his stories all night. Clever tales from a storyteller with a clever tongue, and they will only ever be able to remember them as that - parables and adages, where he remembers them in his memories and the collective history of his people, his country before it was ever a country.
His hold on Bellamy tightens, as he hears his earnest questions. There was a boy once, as eager as this, equally enthralled by a well-spun tale. Hanging on to his every word, small hands clutching the heavy fabric of his kefta - hopeful, fearful all at once. The memory is fond, but the emotions twist and sour, the longer he lingers upon it. It's best to pick the story up, before he ruins it between them. An idle thought will all to easily stain a connection. He moves then, releasing one of Bellamy's hands, stepping around him to stand to one side. The dancers are visible over his shoulder, but the manner of story changes with the positioning of his hands, the shift of his feet. He's dragging Bellamy into the dancers, with each slow step. ]
(She could not dance, and the fire would not come. This was how things were --)
[ Fire does not have a heart to be swayed, nor a mind to be bargained with. Galina, humble dancer, promised every dance would belong to it if only it would warm her, for one more night. She pleaded until she could not speak, shivering in the night as it filled the world and brought the beasts of the depths howling through the trees. In silence and in darkness, she held herself. One last time, as the sounds of the wild crept down around her, she reached for the fire. She did not reach into the wood for it, she reached into the world. From the world and from within herself, she blazed. And she laughed, for she realized the fire did not love her and did not hear her calls and did not see her dances. It was her, all along, who was saving herself. ]
no subject
His hold on Bellamy tightens, as he hears his earnest questions. There was a boy once, as eager as this, equally enthralled by a well-spun tale. Hanging on to his every word, small hands clutching the heavy fabric of his kefta - hopeful, fearful all at once. The memory is fond, but the emotions twist and sour, the longer he lingers upon it. It's best to pick the story up, before he ruins it between them. An idle thought will all to easily stain a connection. He moves then, releasing one of Bellamy's hands, stepping around him to stand to one side. The dancers are visible over his shoulder, but the manner of story changes with the positioning of his hands, the shift of his feet. He's dragging Bellamy into the dancers, with each slow step. ]
( She could not dance, and the fire would not come. This was how things were -- )
[ Fire does not have a heart to be swayed, nor a mind to be bargained with. Galina, humble dancer, promised every dance would belong to it if only it would warm her, for one more night. She pleaded until she could not speak, shivering in the night as it filled the world and brought the beasts of the depths howling through the trees. In silence and in darkness, she held herself. One last time, as the sounds of the wild crept down around her, she reached for the fire. She did not reach into the wood for it, she reached into the world. From the world and from within herself, she blazed. And she laughed, for she realized the fire did not love her and did not hear her calls and did not see her dances. It was her, all along, who was saving herself. ]