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The room is bright and almost unbearably warm, a stark contrast to the dreary, snow-laden landscape beyond the windows. A storm rages outside, wind furiously whipping the falling snow into a white blur; inside, the howling winds cannot be heard above the music of the band in one corner and the voices of people mingling and laughing. The press of people in their finery is almost stifling, their closeness and warmth filling the air with the heady scent of countless expensive perfumes, roasted meat upon the banquet, and perspiration.
It is sickeningly decadent and altogether too much, but Amyra does not allow her displeasure to show upon her face, hiding her thoughts behind a polite smile. She feels a bit like a doll, stuffed into a beautiful but stiflingly modest gown, covered from chin to toe, laden with jewelry, hair pinned into an elaborate updo that is sure to give her a headache before the night is out. It had become clear quite quickly upon her arrival that this would not be the kind of party that Amyra enjoyed, but she could not bear to disappoint Edmont and Emmanelain, who had arranged for her invitation to this ball, by leaving early. Nor could she bear to disappoint Ser Aymeric, who had expressed such joy when she’d informed him of her invitation the previous night. So she had allowed herself to be led into the crush of Ishgardian high society, smiling and laughing and getting caught in the swirl of introductions and polite, stilted conversation.
Eventually she had found her way to a quiet spot on the outskirts of the room, and that is where she continues to stand as the evening wears on. Her back is to the window, allowing her to bask in the frigid air that seeps through the glass. The champagne flute held delicately in her fingers is long empty, having been drained of liquid almost immediately upon escaping the crowd; but none of the staff have noticed her here, tucked away in the corner, and she is reluctant to venture out from this safe harbor. She will be snatched up the moment she does, pulled back into the press of people preening and posturing. She is the Warrior of the Light, after, all, a hot commodity at the moment. Everyone wants a moment of her time, to be seen on her arm, by her side, to claim a laugh or a smile. She had once thought she would enjoy this sort of fame, back when she’d begun her adventuring; but no, she wasn’t so sure. All of these people have expectations of her - how she should act, how she should speak, who she is, what she believes - and the weight of those expectations sits heavily upon her shoulders. It is exhausting, but it is a burden she must bear. What would she be, without it?
She doesn’t know anymore.
Amyra is about to give in and leave her spot, in search of another drink, when a flash of blue catches her eye. A familiar shade of blue, one which brings a smile to her lips as she tracks its progress across the room. It works steadily through the crowd, stopping here and there for polite greetings and brief conversations, its path leading steadily and unerringly to her.
“There you are,” the man draped in blue says, when he finally breaks free from the crowd and stands before her. His blue eyes sparkle in the candlelight as he smiles. “I was afraid you had run away, and I would have to suffer through this pageant alone.” There is a full glass of champagne in both of his hands, and he swiftly trades one for Amyra’s empty glass. A passing servant immediately plucks the empty glass from the man’s hands, and then they are alone again. Amyra cannot help the warm smile that curves her lips, or the way her eyes shine as she gazes up at this man.
“Ser Aymeric,” she says, dipping into a graceful, polite curtsy, eyes never leaving his. “I could not possibly leave before having the chance to greet you; that would make me a terrible friend.” She laughs, a bright, sweet sound that dances in the air between them, and takes a sip of her champagne. “And besides, I believe you promised me a dance.” There is something in her voice, something coy and flirtatious that matches the gleam in her eyes. All of her conversations with Aymeric are laced with that something, that wanting, but tonight it is stronger, more obvious.
A slow, easy grin spreads across Aymeric’s face, and there is something in the depths of those lovely blue eyes that sends a pleasant shiver down Amyra’s spine. “Yes, I believe I did,” he says, and his voice is so low and smooth and sensual it should be a sin. “And it would be such a shame if I were to break that promise, would it not?”
“A real shame,” Amyra agrees, her voice barely more than a sigh. The warmth and perfumed air must be getting to her, she thinks, suddenly dizzy and breathless, flushed. That beautiful grin of Aymeric’s grows smug, his gem-like eyes slowly raking across her body, drinking in the effect his nearness has on her. He catches her free hand with his, rubs his thumb along her knuckles tenderly, ever so slowly brings her hand to his lips.
“Then, my lady, might I have the honor of this dance?” His lips brush against her skin, soft, delicate, warm. She is lost, lost in his eyes, in his breath on her skin, in the intoxicating perfumes of the crowd. Mouth suddenly dry, unable to speak, she nods her assent, and gulps down the rest of her champagne. Aymeric chuckles, low and dark, and Amyra cannot help the filthy thoughts that tumble through her mind. His grip on her hand, firm but still gentle, almost burns through the delicate lace of her gloves as he leads her to the center of the room. The champagne flute slips from her fingers, but she does not hear it hit the floor or shatter; nothing exists beyond this moment, her hand in Aymeric’s, the look in his eyes as he bows and she curtsies, the pressure of his hand on her waist, pulling her close. He fills all of her senses. Everything is blue, blue, blue. Amyra is drowning in an ocean of blue, and she does not mind.
Aymeric spreads his fingers across the small of her back, pressing her body to his. Fire races through her body, spreading out from the pressure of each of his fingertips against her. Her breath catches in her throat, and that smile grows wicked upon Aymeric’s lips. “Are you feeling alright, my lady? You look quite flushed.”
“I am quite well, thank you,” Amyra says, though her tone is quite breathy and altogether unconvincing. She is flushed, far too warm; she desperately wishes to tear off this stuffy Ishgardian dress and trade it for something lighter, something breathable. But she wants Aymeric’s hands on her more than that, more than she’s ever wanted anything before. “Don’t tell me you are trying to get out of our dance, Ser Aymeric.”
A chuckle, low and dark. “I would not dare, my lady.” And then they are off, whirling about the room. They float gracefully through the dance, navigating through the other couples with ease; at least, Amyra assumes there are other couples. If there aren’t she would not know - her world has shrunk down to the shape of the man in front of her. She has never done this kind of formal dance before, has never had a reason to, but she is not worried. She trusts the man who holds her, trusts him to lead her through these steps, to keep her from making a fool of herself. She trusts him with far more than that, if she is being perfectly honest. Her life, her honor, her reputation, her heart. She has never felt safer than she does now, in his arms.
Far too quickly, the dance is over. He bows, she curtsies, and suddenly the world is large and loud around her again. People are swarming, complimenting her grace, her beauty, her form; the scent of a million perfumes nearly chokes her. Faces swim across her vision, blurring and snapping into sharp focus by turns.
Aymeric does not let go of her hand. She dares a glance up at him, eyes wild, and he smiles. Soft, gentle, comforting. He tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow, gently pulling her to his side, and suddenly she can breathe again. People do not dare encroach on the Lord Commander’s space, and tucked against his side like this, Amyra is safe from the press of the crowds. Aymeric deals with their admirers easily, accepting their compliments and offering polite conversation with a smile; Amyra merely nods and smiles, noting the masterful way Aymeric is slowly bringing them to the edge of the room again. He looks down, catches her eye, smiles that lovely smile that makes her heart skip a beat.
“I do believe the lady is needed elsewhere,” he says to those still surrounding them, though his gaze does not leave Amyra. “Thank you, my lady, for blessing us with your presence here tonight. It has been most delightful.”
“It was my pleasure,” Amyra says. Her words and attention are directed to Aymeric, but the crowd accepts them and wishes her a good night and a warm ride home. They disperse, and then it is only Amyra and Aymeric once more. There is a moment of silence, as they gaze at each other, then Aymeric brings Amyra’s hand to his lips once more.
“Thank you for the dance, my lady. It was the highlight of my evening.” There is that edge of something in his voice again, subdued but still present. “Now go. Edmont never stays long at these events. He’ll help you make your escape.” His smile is warm, teasing. Amyra laughs, smiles gratefully and squeezes his hand once before dropping it.
“Thank you, Ser Aymeric. Thanks to you, I have found this evening enchanting.” She curtsies, he bows. “Til the morrow, my lord.”
“Til the morrow, my lady.”
She sweeps away, spots Edmont watching her from where he stands beside the doorway, and finally makes her escape from the clutches of high society. Aymeric watches her leave, a fond smile on his lips.