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The borderlands between the Woodlands and Cliftlands was shrouded in darkness, stars alight in the gods’ hunting grounds. Nocturnal beasts and birds rustled among the branches of the trees, quiet and precise. A campfire was a beacon to gnats, and so bats swished past high above. Dark darts moving like the moon-cast shadows of a spotted cloud.
Those who did not know nature would say that all was still. There was a myriad of things no human could see when night settled, but as H’aanit sat prodded on her hands and face angled toward the sky, she sensed just how untrue that statement was. Life flurried around them, in the sounds of crickets and moths, in the distant patter of mice paws on grass and in the hoot of owls that hunted them.
Linde lay with her eyes glittering and open, her attention ever keen. A rustle and chatter had Linde perk her ears and lift her head. A lynx, H’aanit guessed. Nothing dangerous to a group of grown humans like them. Linde seemed to agree; she returned to rest her head on her paws.
H’aanit had slept in the woods since she was a babe. Arms under her head and grass tickling her cheek, it was a house that always welcomed her. Although nature was not a very considerate host, once one reached a mutual understanding of its ways, one could consider oneself its guest.
Thus, it was not wariness of the wood’s movements that kept her awake. It was movement of a different kind.
Primrose always danced, just like the winds always danced in the treetops and the river always flowed. Her walk was a skip—even when she was angry or distressed, she always kept on her toes. Her arms always moved and changed direction in sudden bursts, like vipers ready to strike. Her guarded mouth quipped quicker than most, and when she said softer things, her voice was melodic and subconsciously created a rhythm. She danced for strength, for speed, and for the forces of nature to pay her heed and grant her bewildering gambles—it was a deep and ancient magic, and H’aanit was no scholar, but she saw how strong and unyielding it could be, like the seed breaking through earth.
And so now too, Primrose danced. She was a light sleeper, used to staying the night and sleeping the mornings away. For the appalling reasons and ways her talents had been exploited, it would not be out of place to hate the thought of dancing beneath the stage of the stars, but now that Primrose was alone, H’aanit could see that she loved her craft. She loved it fiercely, refusing to let it go or let it be sullied by her memories.
She stretched her leg up, up, like she was about to pluck one of the stars down with her toes, and then bent her back and smoothly angled her arms above her head. Then slowly, gently, she reached for her ankle with one hand and as though swimming through the air, she spun. Her hair cascaded down on the ground, light as dew on spiderwebs.
With the clothes of a huntress borrowed to her, Primrose’s movements did not reveal as much of her skin as her dancer garb would, but this show was still not something anyone was allowed to see. Primrose hid away when she did these dances, as she wanted none to witness her. None except H’aanit.
She reclaimed the beauty and the love from the past that had taken it away. Tears would gleam on her cheeks, but for every time she did this, she spoke of how the scars of her memories faded even further.
None was stronger than her, was H’aanit’s firm belief. Everyone in their traveling company was driven and clever in different ways, but all of them would topple from the weight of Primrose’s history. Although even Primrose was not invincible. As the needles of evergreen, so too would they fall and wither when the time came, no matter how much of winter’s cold they had survived before then. Such was nature’s way.
But as Primrose slowly bowed to her crowd of trees, firelight flickering over her bronze skin, she seemed all but eternal. She walked quietly over to H’aanit, always on her toes, past a sleeping Alfyn who lay with his arm over Therion’s chest. Despite her carefulness, Therion still stirred and sat upright, but as he saw it was Primrose, he lay back down without so much as a muttering.
Primrose continued toward her. H’aanit could see the gleam in the corners of her eyes, coupled with a smile on her face. Careful, pointed, like the one drawn on a seductive painting, but still with softness around her gaze.
She crouched before H’aanit, her arms wrapping around her own knees. H’aanit remained still, but she smiled too. To touch Primrose after such a dance was usually not welcomed, as it resulted in her gaze darkening no matter who or why, so H’aanit waited for her.
“What did you think?” Primrose asked, a lone tear falling free from her eyelid as she blinked.
“Masterful,” H’aanit answered. “None can match thine radiance.”
Primrose bent her head and pressed her palms against her eyes for a moment, before sighing and smiling at H’aanit again. Then her gaze darted up at the bats scurrying over their heads, and the stars reflected in her dark eyes.
H’aanit offered her hand and gestured to the empty bedroll beside her.
“Are you certain?” Primrose chuckled quietly. “I am a bit sweaty.”
“Fie, I do not mind. Thou wouldst not smellen worse than Linde after a bath, I assureth thee.”
Primrose’s soft fingers slowly curled around hers.
“What a charming thing to say to a woman,” she teased, then sat down on the bedroll. She drummed her fingers for a moment, then sighed and lay down. Still with her eyes open. Primrose always danced, so lying still was not something she ever wanted to do. H’aanit let her restless fingers brush her hand, waited for her breathing to slow.
“Do you think I can do this in the highlands too, or will I risk falling from a cliff?”
“I shall watcheth thee carefully.”
“Don’t you always,” Primrose snorted through her nose. Then she sighed again and leaned her head on H’aanit’s shoulder. “Well. I’ll hold you to that promise.”
The night was not still, as nights never are. Life was everywhere around H’aanit, but even as the movements of dance had stilled, the sounds of the woods was still not the reason she lay awake.
It was simpler than that. When Primrose’s warm breath stroked the naked skin on her throat, her senses willed it so she would not sleep. Merely to revel in the simple extraordinance, just for a moment longer, if nature willed it so.