Work Text:
A Dance of Mirrors
September is not expecting to see Halloween in a wheelchair.
Halloween may still be her shadow—may still look like a dark and uncanny version of September—but she long ago stopped changing every time something new happened to September. She is the shadow of the girl September used to be, or perhaps they are both now women grown from that small girl with no heart and all the courage needed to save the world.
Saving the world is not always an easy thing on a body, though. Sometimes the world, like every hurting and wounded animal, bites and scratches at those who are trying hard to do what is right.
Sometimes those scratches leave permanent marks.
September’s hand rests on the wheel of her mobility chair. It’s a beautiful, brilliant machine that she made herself, and like most things that her engineer’s wrench touches, it seems a little bit alive; a little bit aware of what its purpose is, and eager to fulfill it.
Still, she had hoped to attend this revel on crutches if she had to, or even better on her own two feet. That was not to be, though, and she refuses to miss the excitement entirely just because her body has decided today will be a difficult day.
And now she is not the only one on wheels as the dance spreads out. Now she faces her shadow, and the beautiful dark woman who is Queen of Fairyland Below smiles as she guides her own chair to face September.
“How…” September asks, though really what she wants to know is, Why?
“Because I still feel echoes of you, my beautiful warm blooded biter,” Halloween says, her voice deep and rich as a whirlpool. “Because Saturday and A-thru-L are my friends as well as yours.”
September nods, though she sees Mallow’s hand in this, too; senses Mallow’s touch and maybe Lye’s in the way that Halloween has been able to reproduce September’s work.
“You don’t have to—” September starts to say.
And Halloween leans forward, a smile on her inky lips, and whispers, “Of course I don’t. I am Halloween, the Hallowed Queen. But I thought that perhaps you would enjoy a dance or two like this.”
And September finds herself smiling, a fierce and fearsome show of teeth, because yes, she would. She would like to show everyone around what she has crafted, and how well it works for her.
The chair seems to hum beneath her, eager, energized by her excitement.
Halloween bows in her chair.
September bows back.
She half expects Halloween to take the lead, but this is September’s dance, and the shadow-woman is patient, allowing September to guide their movements. Their chairs whirl around each other, pulse in towards one another and then back out again. September’s head moves up and down, left and right, eagerly keeping the pulse of the drums.
When the music of the first dance comes to a close, September and Halloween are nose to nose, leaning forward in their respective chairs. A wave of cheering breaks around them—for their Queen, for the Wind who has been invited to the revels, for sheer reflected joy? September thinks it could be all of these, and perhaps a dozen more reasons besides.
“That was lovely,” September pants.
“Yes,” Halloween agrees, and her hand reaches out.
September twines her fingers with those of the shadow who once was her, and they rest their foreheads against one another, breathing the same air for a few precious moments.
When the music begins again, Halloween arches an eyebrow.
September grins in return, and they both grip their chairs, eager to see what the next song will bring.