Work Text:
The soft sound of a string quartet ebbed in and out of hearing as happy chatter filled the crevices of the ballroom. The rainbow of wisteria growing from the stone ceiling trailed down to encase the metal chandeliers, dancing amidst flames that did not light delicate petals, but seemed to caress them instead.
In a nook behind a table overladen with food, Nesta’s foot tapped along with the percussion as she conversed with Lucien, a striking figure in cobalt by her side. Wildflowers of soft purple plaited through his long hair, anthers golden with pollen, a soft contrast against the sparking russet gaze that stayed fixed on his lovers. Like in a trance his eyes followed Azriel in lilac Illyrian dancing garb and Elain in ivy tulle gliding through the steps and hops of a Scythian waltz. The Shadowsinger’s tight curls brushed Elain’s looser ringlets as he brought their faces close for a kiss.
Nesta knew from confessions found in the dregs of lavender tea the sisters drank on her balcony, that golden moments like these anchored her sister to this world of clay and blood. So when Elain’s eyes glazed over to search the uncurled paths of untold futures there were threads of chiming laughter, braided ribbons of clove and pine to follow back home.
People whispered, as they were want to do, that the Seer of the Old Way needed the bond of two to tether her to the earth.
A twirl.
Waists grabbed in steady grips across the floor.
A breath.
Fae in finery hoisted in the air, those possessing wings spreading them wide as if to touch the cavern’s vaulted ceilings.
A beat.
Full skirts and flowing garments whirling like petals opening as the dancers spun, a jubilant celebration of movement.
On each count the pair slipped through the flurries of dancers that crowded the floor.
Here a glimpse.
Elain’s face candle-lit and creased from laughter.
There a glance.
Azriel’s blush blooming across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.
‘She is happy.’ Nesta’s quiet remark, more to herself than her companion, roused Lucien from his stupor.
‘We are happy.’
As the song drew to a close, the echoing vibrato of the cello’s final notes undulating around their forms lulling them back into silence, each digesting the satisfying enormity of that gentle edit.