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Sometimes Anya’s games took on such life that if Loid thought about them very hard he could see exactly what she conveyed in her loud words, whenever time decreed that he and Yor could play with her in the living room.
It was not the case right now. Anya had written a childishly crafted playbook with haphazard stickers and purposeful crayon etched along the cover and insides with her struggled handwriting. She was evidently making revisions right in the middle of the play that she cajoled Loid and Yor to participate in, with Yor taking on the role of Cinderella adorned with a golden dress and her feet graced in blue slippers and Anya as a participating narrator. There was the matter of Loid’s role that was contentious right now.
Anya’s hand slapped against the loose-leafed pasted together pages as she barked, “Now, papa! A hundred bad guys get into the ball and you fight them all!”
“Anya, wasn’t I just a noble?”
Anya breathed out a world-weary sigh that did not match her age or her adorable face. It was more suited to a long-suffering director that had their hands full with prima-donnas. She put a hand to her forehead like she got headaches parallel to Loid’s stomach ulcers.
“No, no, you have to be a soldier so you beat up the bad guys and Cinderella wants to dance with you! Then Anya will get a mama.”
Yor gave a quiet giggle at Anya’s fiery proclamation even as her cheeks were dusted with a faint pink. Loid had to force himself to look away so he could fight off the imaginary bad guys, like he was shadow-boxing.
“Good! Okay, now, mama has to kill the prince in a secret room!”
Yor’s eyes widened as she protested, “But isn’t he a good prince?”
Loid, in the moment, wondered where Anya got an idea like that. But he was familiar of fairy tales like Cinderella that carried darkness with almost dissonant cheerfulness so perhaps it was not a stretch to assume that a prince would get assassinated.
“No, he’s bad,” Anya said decisively. This contrasted to her earlier assessment of the fictional prince in which he gave out roses and ice cream to everyone. “He wants to kill Anya.”
Yor gasped, her eyes flickered with a fierce sort of protectiveness even though it was just a story. Loid could not blame her in the slightest however. Anyone who tried to put their hands on Anya would dearly pay the price.
“That’s why papa will let you kill him even though he’s a soldier,” Anya said like it made all the sense in the world. Loid was back to ruminating on why he suddenly turned from a noble to a soldier in the blink of an eye.
Anya gave a glare alongside her pout. “Don’t complain, papa! Soldiers are cooler ‘cause they get to fight dragons.”
Loid didn’t argue. Anya didn’t give any indication as to what needed to be said during this scene because she was watching them both intently, like the greatest show on Earth was playing out before her. So Loid figured that he and Yor would have to ad-lib their lines to exactly what Anya envisioned for her play. It seemed a little over the top for what was playing pretend but he wouldn’t back down from such a challenge.
He set the scene with a neutral look on his face, a realization that the woman he danced with was going to commit regicide and he would be torn between the duty to the prince and knowing that she could do what he could not. Their fictional counterparts’ tenderness would be drenched in guilty blood. He should have guessed that being a spy that could wear a hundred faces would come in handy for plays.
Yor mimed as if she was going into the door in which the prince was waiting. Loid grabbed her wrist, but it was gentle to betray his character’s intentions.
“What will you do to the prince?” he asked, his voice carrying an unfathomable weight that befit a man that had to serve a prince wishing to kill his daughter.
Yor did not answer, her shoulders slack as her breath came out like a shuddering gasp; as if a great secret was attempting to break free from her lips. Eventually she turned to face him, not quite able to meet his eyes. Loid could guess that it would play up how heavy this secret was.
“Kill him,” Yor said without hesitation. Part of Loid wondered why Yor’s Cinderella character would give this up so easily.
“It’s dramatic, papa,” Anya hissed in a stage whisper. Loid flinched slightly, that maybe his face gave him away.
His hand moved away from Yor’s wrist and tenderly cradled her hand. In the context of the play they had shared a wonderful dance where Yor’s soft hands were clasped with reverence. Now that same reverence was conveyed that Loid would keep this fictional secret safe.
“Do it quickly,” he said in a hushed whisper. “I will keep you safe.”
Yor’s free hand reached up to rest against his cheek. Her thumb traced a short line along his cheek as she said, “I am glad you are not the prince.”
In a held moment they gazed at each other, something precious becoming tangible in what was meant to just be playing pretend. And then Yor drew away from him to complete her mission.
“And then,” Anya shouted and broke the spell, “She runs away and loses her fuzzy slipper. Bond helps papa find her – not right now ‘cause he’s asleep – and birds eat the eyeballs of anyone that was mean to mama, like in the Cinderella story but they also never get to have peanuts ever again! And then mama and papa get married!”
It was rapidly spoken like she couldn’t take it anymore and had to get to the slightly morbid but happy ending. Loid had to smile at her overflowing enthusiasm.
“Well, that was a very nice play, miss Anya,” Yor said. She took those few steps over to tousle Anya’s hair affectionately.
Anya grinned at the praise. Then her eyes widened as she shouted, “Oh, mama and papa forgot to dance!”
“It can happen now,” Loid said, mostly to placate her, “If Yor would like to dance.”
“ Of course, Loid.”
She took his outstretched hand and after a little bit of fumbling they found a rhythm and began to dance. It would not be suited to a proper ballroom because in fifteen seconds Anya launched herself forward to be included in the dance.
It was a messy and silly dance. In-between the makeshift song for this dance Loid or Yor would hunch down so they could hold Anya’s hands and dance at her height. She made them spin around in a circle that went too fast and nearly made them all fall over. She would reach her arms up to be held and so Loid and Yor had to figure out how to dance close together while one of them was holding Anya.
The imperfect dancing was full of joy and laughter. It belonged to them alone.