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Inigo danced as beautifully as ever. Despite the war, the raging monsters in the day, the bloodshed that soiled his sword hand, he danced.
Owain, despite his theatrics, never considered himself a romantic, per say. He could come up with fancy words for techniques and attacks, but more delicate matters often left him stumbling. Cynthia once asked him why his story heroes were more often maidenless, but the simple truth was he wasn’t good at describing beauty. Swordplay and epic adventure were easy, delicate fingers and lingering touches were not.
It was really a coincidence he found himself here, a ways from the camp in the forest. The battle with Risen was filled with that familiar bloodied scent, but he managed to end up mostly unscathed for today. Thankful for another breath of life, Owain headed deep into the trees, to train his blade to be more fierce than the earth, faster than the wind.
Finding Inigo, hidden among green, with a faux spotlight of the moon’s shines, was unexpected.
He didn’t really think he needed those words, at this moment. For once there was nothing; he couldn’t find any words as he quietly watched Inigo dance, graceful steps like nothing he’d ever seen. Inigo’s lightly kissed pink hair was lit but a moonlight behind him, and as if he was dancing with the moon herself, he circled around with steps both careful yet passionate. The steps moved one after the other to an evenly paced rhythm Inigo must’ve been hearing in his head as if it were real.
Inigo looked just as focused as he did on the battlefield, eyes sharp and trained in a way Owain was afraid he'd be caught any second. His steps were constructed in a way that led to another like free flowing water. Even so, he’d sometimes let out a playful smile, step a bit away from the intended step, still on beat, and freely create something new. His freedom was like a bird with wings, in a sky so vast he only could remember it from childhood memories.
And he watched it all, from afar, for once no protagonist hero in a story but a simple observer to the man whom he fought with side by side and occasionally shared a tearful night with, now a center stage position. It felt too authentic, with Inigo’s smiles so drastically different from the overcompensating winks and flirts with the village ladies. Owains’s pride would deny an extra skip of the heart, but his ears filled with the careful beat he could almost match up Inigo’s steps with it. Watching the dance left him with an adrenaline that burned his ears and cheeks, an urge to come out from his spot and join Inigo right then and there.
Inigo’s dance finally began slowing down to a close, his feet gracefully coming together, and giving a generous bow to his invisible audience. Perhaps truly invisible, as Owain could almost swear he heard a faint call of “Mother…” slip by Inigo’s lips.
For a moment Owain wanted to speak up and congratulate Inigo for a good performance, complete with a few quick jabs and jests, but he stopped himself. Looking at Inigo’s eyes, so warm after celebrating his mother’s memory, perhaps it was best to leave him be. Like a rose, some things were left best only admired from a distance, undisturbed and able to excel in it’s beauty.
Ah but. Owain wasn’t a romantic, he swears.