Laughs, surprised. It's a bright sound in the little room and only a little embarrassed. How mortifying—to have one's sullen little decisions called forward and into question. Bastien hadn't known she'd sworn away dancing. It had been relatively easy to pretend as if she hadn't ever been silly enough to swear it off.
(Maybe she ought to have kept to that conviction. What had she looked like down in the Gallows courtyard, leading Bastien around by the hand with the delicate albeit undeniably stiff prosthetic strapped to her other side? A little ridiculous, would be her wager.)
"Were that so, I would estimate this room to be a little small for it. I might teach you in the hall though, I suppose."
"You changed your mind," is not really a question. Observation. Uncertain where the shift stems from, but not willing to truly pry after it.
Would she decide otherwise? Wysteria might reverse her decision. It had been instructive, this stretch of time where Ellis had felt her closing the possibility to him and realizing the depth of its absence. His hand turns in her grip.
"Show me."
The hallway will be empty. They have some time before interruption is a real possibility.
That prompts another laugh, a little more baffled and embarrassed than the first. But rather than explain herself or interrogate his interest in the subject, Wysteria instead extracts her hand from his. The glass paned locket is smuggling into her skirt pocket.
"Well all right, as you're insisting. Excuse me, Ruadh." This, so the mabari may remove his heavy chin from her knee before she rises smartly to both feet with a click of her heeled boots.
In short order, they have passed from the little room with its sparse collection of things and into the very empty corridor beyond it. There, Wysteria takes up Ellis's hand once more. She feels considerably more silly doing so than she had with Bastien. Perhaps it's the lack of even off key music.
(That's not why.)
"Do you want me to teach you the same one I showed Monsieur Bastien?"
Ruadh's relocation sees him as far as the doorway, lounging along the stone floor to observe them as they come together in the hall. Huffing, perhaps, at the separation; he cannot remain glued to Wysteria's side nor herd her in one direction or another when she is occupied.
"Show me the one you like dancing best," he tells her, hand shifting hers to link them more securely.
He is still barefoot. The laces at his throat have not been done up. The stone is cold beneath his feet, yes, but he doesn't care to tread back inside to fetch up his boots.
It is unreasonable, but he has considered that she might change her mind.
"Oh, no. It can't be that one," Wysteria says automatically, lapsing afterward into thoughtful silence so she might consider the alternatives. All this without releasing his captured hand.
There is one dance that might be accomplished with hardly any modification at all, and would be friendly to the shape of the corridor besides. But it's among her least favorites, and there's a reason she hadn't bothered to show it to Bastien either. The steps are dull.
"Here," she says at last, deciding. There is a part they will have to modify, but it might be done with just one pair of linked hands. Shifting, Wysteria begins to tap her toe against the cold stone floor. (Oh, his poor bare feet.) "This is the tempo. I'll show you your part, and then we'll trade."
Whatever that one entails, Ellis slots it into some quiet, distant corner. Maybe he'll ask next year. Whatever the next occasion might be, where they might find a moment to dance.
"Aye," is easy agreement. He is a good pupil. Happy to be so guided, to be led down the hallway and directed where she would. Here a turn. Here a crossing of arms, their linked hands. (One link, where Ellis suspects there might have been two held fast.) A point where he must duck beneath the bridge of her lifted arm, which requires some doing.
"Is it like this the whole way through?" he prompts. "You might lead the whole way through."
A little teasing suggestion, knowing that she is unlikely to agree to it.
For the first few steps, she had been thinking very hard—thinking forward, to the points which will have to be done differently than she is used to, but also because let's be frank: it's been a number of years since last she had the opportunity to dance this particular reel, and without even the uneven music of the courtyard it feels less like reflex and more like a thing she must actively arrange in her head. Still, once they've made their way through the first few movements, the stiffness of her arm has begun to relent and the seriously thoughtful line between her brow has eased. This suggestion, made as Ellis stoops under her arm, achieves what must be part of its desired effect: she laughs, then scoffs.
"Mister Ellis, you've asked me to teach you a silly Kalvadan dance. It wouldn't be properly Kalvadan if I were to lead you about the whole time. No, I'm afraid it won't do. And there is a point coming up here where the lead is important, so pay careful attention."
Her lead the whole way through. Honestly.
With a great rolling of eyes, Wysteria carts him along through the next movement. It's not in actuality at all complicated, merely inconvenient given one handhold—her high on her toes so she might turn him under her arm first in one direction, and then reversing him back again. The whole arrangement is slightly absurd, less for her lack of a second hand and more for how far Ellis is required to bend his head. Silly Kalvadan dance indeed.
The only witness to the comedy is Ruadh, indifferent to the contortions going on in front of him.
Wysteria has stretched up, and Ellis has been obliged to bend, bow his shoulders to wedge beneath her arm. He manages to keep hold of her throughout the process, fingers linked through hers as she directs him one way, then back again to meet her.
Not a laugh, but a smile has worked its way across his face for the effort of it.
"Try it again. I'll follow it better a second time."
It isn't a complicated motion. They have thus far avoided any crushed toes or collisions. But all Wysteria's intent direction is a delight in and of itself. He would keep hold of it, just a little longer.
"A second time! Oh, Mister Ellis. Haven't you taught people arms in the training yard?"
With a great put on huffing and puffing, she repeats the movement—turning him first one direction and then another, then laughing at how he's required to duck to accommodate the length of her arm.
Some of that falsely put upon spirit—flexing in and out of the impulse to laugh again—is still in her bearing as Wysteria pulls him out of the turn and goes traipsing back up the other side of the hallway with a click clack click of her hard soled black boots. In short order, they've circled back to the first combination of the dance.
Her laughter dilutes the miserable haze he's carried back from Starkhaven, from the temple. Crowds it back and keeps it at bay, as Wysteria obliges him to turn and duck and turn again. His feet are cold. He has developed such a firm grip on her hand, even allowing for the moments when the clasp of their palms requires some shift of their fingers to accommodate.
Even back to the start, presumably where he might take a turn at leading, the hold on her hand remains.
"Be kind to me, if I miss a step?" is a joke too. Wysteria so rarely minces words.
"Yes, yes. I promise to be as patient as a beloved governess, or as a very respectable Chantry sister. Particularly as we must now change directions," Wysteria says even as she trots him round in a tight circle so they might reverse the way they came with hardly an interruption to what can be considered their momentum. "The lady ought to be on the outside, you see."
As she can hardly trade him her off hand, this will have to do.
And there they go, Ellis in his bare feet, Wysteria counting them off.
It is a lovely little dance, for all the comedy of the instruction. And Ellis, regardless of requests for repetition, pleas for benevolence, and bare feet, is a quick study. It comes naturally, using his body for any given purpose. Out of all the things he is obliged to learn on the fly, dancing might be the happiest of the lot.
And without a grasp on the original, it all feels seamless, as it should be.
Somewhere partway through, with Ellis turning Wysteria out and then in and out again, he asks, "Do you recall the dance I showed you?"
Years ago.
It shouldn't be on his mind, but it's come to him in pieces, returning over and over since Wysteria swore off dancing, there now as they move along the corridor together.
"My present, you mean," is teasing. Now that she has surrendered the lead to him and may openly criticize his execution of the steps without endangering her own competence, there's little reason not to poke fun at him. That's what he'd called it then, wasn't it? A gift.
(Really, there is nothing to criticize—she is hardly so excellent a dancer, and he's deft enough at picking up all the necessary pieces.)
"Oh course I remember it. I have an excellent memory for my property, Mister Ellis."
It is, on reflection, a very predictable question indeed.
There's no reason for it to should catch her so off guard, a flicker of uncertainty slashing sharp through her good humor—there, then gone, the imperfect seam made more obvious by the way Wysteria readopts her smile. She can feel her face doing something ridiculous which is fundamentally absurd when they're having such a fine time of it even with music and with only Ruadh for an audience.
Truly, she doubts she remembers the dance quite so well as she ought to. Though he would see her through the parts she might be misremembering, she's certain.
Click, click, go her dark boots' heels along the stone floor. She decides to be cheerful and not embarrassed.
"It may be somewhat beyond me, Mister Ellis." Diplomacy ought to recruit her. "I recall some business of overlapping arms."
As she processes the offer, settles on her answer, the momentum of their dance slows. Or Ellis slows their pace. It's not with any intention of drawing to a stop, but giving himself space to watch her expression, consider his answer without splitting his focus.
"We might do without it," he offers. His thumb runs along her knuckles, brow furrowing intently. "I've given it some thought, how we might adapt, if you like."
Because no, the way her expression ripples through discomfort did not go unnoticed. Even if the end result is a smile, Ellis can divine which thoughts might have prompted the shift. Seeks to assuage them, even though Wysteria likely won't give voice to it.
It's different—to dance some Kalvadan dance that only she knows how to do properly while making up all the parts she can't do. No one knows any better. They might suspect, but they can't know. Not for certain. So, no. She would prefer not to indulge Ellis in this. Not when he will know exactly what is wrong and who has apparently already given some consideration as to how it must be changed to suit her. It feels very like being pitied.
"If you like." If Ellis has slowed the pace, Wysteria is content to lag. It would be discouraging to refuse him now when the whole point of her coming had been to wish him well and assure herself that he was in good spirits.
"But only for a few minutes. I'm not meant to be keeping you long, you recall."
A quiet thing, easier to say knowing that she will return him to his room shortly, and descend back to the party. Simple as that.
And he doesn't hasten to say anything else, as they move through these next steps. As he turns her accordingly, this way and that, as he stamps his foot as directed. (The sound is somewhat muted, on account of his lack of boots, but it is enough, surely.) His fingers lace through hers, drawing her to a halt at the end of the hall.
"But you needn't indulge me," he tells her, taking the measure of her enthusiasm and finding himself uncertain of it.
Which is in and of itself an indicator. Wysteria's enthusiasm is rarely tempered.
Rarely does Ellis's examination feel quite so much like a thumb on a scale. She is aware of the urge to squirm under it, and how ridiculous they must seem—him barefoot and roused forcibly out of bed, and her with her face all drawn on. The effect of Mister Stark's beautifully made arm must be considerably diminished under these circumstances.
"Nonsense. It's hardly qualifies as that. And even if it did, it would only be fair."
Rather than meet his eye, she lets her attention flickers back in the direction of the doorway where Ruadh lays. Look at that silly dog with his great block head, the distance of a few meters sufficient to reduce his scars to little more than funny stripes in the half lit corridor.
"I only don't wish to disappoint you, is all," is sunny and bright as she looks back to Ellis. All cheer behind that grey makeup! "Or to misrepresent the thing in question, obviously. It has nothing to do with not wanting to do as you like. Particularly given how committed you've become to being so dreadfully serious."
"How could you misrepresent it? It's yours now," is only a little bit teasing.
It had been a gift. Ellis is the only one left who might know this particular iteration of the dance, and he will be gone too, in due time. It's hers as much as its his own.
"And you couldn't disappoint me," he presses, firm over the words. "I'm content with this dance, if it's what you prefer."
"That's not—" she scoffs, and laughs, and it's only a little artificial. Not false—just trying slightly too hard to express herself. Yes, it is hers. But that's not the point.
(Stop that. She is trying to be serious, or sober, or very cheerful in the face of these things. It's entirely inconsiderate of him to make her laugh even a little bit.)
"Well I would be disappointed," she says. "I suppose that's what I really mean."
And so they draw to a stop in the midst of the hallway. Ruadh's head lifts, attentive to this change in activity, but does not huff to his feet.
Ellis has hold of her hand. He doesn't yield it.
"I don't want you to be disappointed," he tells her, sincere over the words. And then, more directly, "I'm sorry I wasn't here. Afterwards."
She'd been so sick when he'd left, still confined to the infirmary and Richard Dickerson's care. And he'd had to leave. What could he have done? Maybe nothing. Maybe no better than this moment, asking for a thing that only chipped at the brightness of her good spirits.
Maybe he'd know better though, if he hadn't been so far for so long while she acclimated to this loss.
It's a good thing he holds on to her hand otherwise she might draw it back to herself by impulse for smoothing her skirts, or tucking her hair back into place behind her ears, or any of a half dozen little motions meant to neaten all her edges.
"Oh, it's all perfectly all right. You'd Warden business to see to. I'm led to believe that's some requirement of your service. And anyway, you remember. I would have made very poor company."
He hasn't ceded his grip on her hand. His thumb runs along the back of her palm as he looks into her face. Wysteria can be something very close to impenetrable. Ellis can't be certain as to whether this assurance is true or what she believes he should hear.
"I would have liked to be here. To make any part of it easier for you."
What would he have done? It's unclear even to Ellis, who is certainly not a skilled enough healer to have been of use in the infirmary, and has repeatedly had his failings as a conversationalist pointed out to him. But still, maybe he could have done something.
They won't know. It's over and done with now.
"We don't need to dance it this year. But maybe someday, once more."
It's a very kind thing to say, she decides. Because otherwise she might have to think he was saying it only because he feels sorry for her, and that would be entirely unbearable. It would color the whole evening. It would make her feel very foolish and small, and that can't be his intention because Ellis would never inflict that on her.
So, yes. It's a kind sentiment. Maybe if he'd stayed for a little while, she would have been less unhappy with all her clothes, and the laces of her boots, and what she looks like with her hair gone bizarrely straight from having it down so long because there would have been other things to chatter along about.
(But maybe not. She'd had plenty of company, after all.)
She blinks very rapidly. Her laugh is automatic like the swing of a joint having had its reflex point struck, but not ungenuine.
"Maybe, yes," she says after a moment. "I'll make a note of it. For next year. —Only you would have to come along to the party then, I suppose."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Laughs, surprised. It's a bright sound in the little room and only a little embarrassed. How mortifying—to have one's sullen little decisions called forward and into question. Bastien hadn't known she'd sworn away dancing. It had been relatively easy to pretend as if she hadn't ever been silly enough to swear it off.
(Maybe she ought to have kept to that conviction. What had she looked like down in the Gallows courtyard, leading Bastien around by the hand with the delicate albeit undeniably stiff prosthetic strapped to her other side? A little ridiculous, would be her wager.)
"Were that so, I would estimate this room to be a little small for it. I might teach you in the hall though, I suppose."
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"You changed your mind," is not really a question. Observation. Uncertain where the shift stems from, but not willing to truly pry after it.
Would she decide otherwise? Wysteria might reverse her decision. It had been instructive, this stretch of time where Ellis had felt her closing the possibility to him and realizing the depth of its absence. His hand turns in her grip.
"Show me."
The hallway will be empty. They have some time before interruption is a real possibility.
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"Well all right, as you're insisting. Excuse me, Ruadh." This, so the mabari may remove his heavy chin from her knee before she rises smartly to both feet with a click of her heeled boots.
In short order, they have passed from the little room with its sparse collection of things and into the very empty corridor beyond it. There, Wysteria takes up Ellis's hand once more. She feels considerably more silly doing so than she had with Bastien. Perhaps it's the lack of even off key music.
(That's not why.)
"Do you want me to teach you the same one I showed Monsieur Bastien?"
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"Show me the one you like dancing best," he tells her, hand shifting hers to link them more securely.
He is still barefoot. The laces at his throat have not been done up. The stone is cold beneath his feet, yes, but he doesn't care to tread back inside to fetch up his boots.
It is unreasonable, but he has considered that she might change her mind.
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There is one dance that might be accomplished with hardly any modification at all, and would be friendly to the shape of the corridor besides. But it's among her least favorites, and there's a reason she hadn't bothered to show it to Bastien either. The steps are dull.
"Here," she says at last, deciding. There is a part they will have to modify, but it might be done with just one pair of linked hands. Shifting, Wysteria begins to tap her toe against the cold stone floor. (Oh, his poor bare feet.) "This is the tempo. I'll show you your part, and then we'll trade."
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"Aye," is easy agreement. He is a good pupil. Happy to be so guided, to be led down the hallway and directed where she would. Here a turn. Here a crossing of arms, their linked hands. (One link, where Ellis suspects there might have been two held fast.) A point where he must duck beneath the bridge of her lifted arm, which requires some doing.
"Is it like this the whole way through?" he prompts. "You might lead the whole way through."
A little teasing suggestion, knowing that she is unlikely to agree to it.
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"Mister Ellis, you've asked me to teach you a silly Kalvadan dance. It wouldn't be properly Kalvadan if I were to lead you about the whole time. No, I'm afraid it won't do. And there is a point coming up here where the lead is important, so pay careful attention."
Her lead the whole way through. Honestly.
With a great rolling of eyes, Wysteria carts him along through the next movement. It's not in actuality at all complicated, merely inconvenient given one handhold—her high on her toes so she might turn him under her arm first in one direction, and then reversing him back again. The whole arrangement is slightly absurd, less for her lack of a second hand and more for how far Ellis is required to bend his head. Silly Kalvadan dance indeed.
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Wysteria has stretched up, and Ellis has been obliged to bend, bow his shoulders to wedge beneath her arm. He manages to keep hold of her throughout the process, fingers linked through hers as she directs him one way, then back again to meet her.
Not a laugh, but a smile has worked its way across his face for the effort of it.
"Try it again. I'll follow it better a second time."
It isn't a complicated motion. They have thus far avoided any crushed toes or collisions. But all Wysteria's intent direction is a delight in and of itself. He would keep hold of it, just a little longer.
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With a great put on huffing and puffing, she repeats the movement—turning him first one direction and then another, then laughing at how he's required to duck to accommodate the length of her arm.
Some of that falsely put upon spirit—flexing in and out of the impulse to laugh again—is still in her bearing as Wysteria pulls him out of the turn and goes traipsing back up the other side of the hallway with a click clack click of her hard soled black boots. In short order, they've circled back to the first combination of the dance.
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Even back to the start, presumably where he might take a turn at leading, the hold on her hand remains.
"Be kind to me, if I miss a step?" is a joke too. Wysteria so rarely minces words.
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As she can hardly trade him her off hand, this will have to do.
"Now one, and two, and three—"
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It is a lovely little dance, for all the comedy of the instruction. And Ellis, regardless of requests for repetition, pleas for benevolence, and bare feet, is a quick study. It comes naturally, using his body for any given purpose. Out of all the things he is obliged to learn on the fly, dancing might be the happiest of the lot.
And without a grasp on the original, it all feels seamless, as it should be.
Somewhere partway through, with Ellis turning Wysteria out and then in and out again, he asks, "Do you recall the dance I showed you?"
Years ago.
It shouldn't be on his mind, but it's come to him in pieces, returning over and over since Wysteria swore off dancing, there now as they move along the corridor together.
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(Really, there is nothing to criticize—she is hardly so excellent a dancer, and he's deft enough at picking up all the necessary pieces.)
"Oh course I remember it. I have an excellent memory for my property, Mister Ellis."
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Her present. Her property.
She's correct. It had been a gift. She will have it long after he's gone.
"Will you dance it with me?" is a predictable question. "Before you return to the party?"
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There's no reason for it to should catch her so off guard, a flicker of uncertainty slashing sharp through her good humor—there, then gone, the imperfect seam made more obvious by the way Wysteria readopts her smile. She can feel her face doing something ridiculous which is fundamentally absurd when they're having such a fine time of it even with music and with only Ruadh for an audience.
Truly, she doubts she remembers the dance quite so well as she ought to. Though he would see her through the parts she might be misremembering, she's certain.
Click, click, go her dark boots' heels along the stone floor. She decides to be cheerful and not embarrassed.
"It may be somewhat beyond me, Mister Ellis." Diplomacy ought to recruit her. "I recall some business of overlapping arms."
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"We might do without it," he offers. His thumb runs along her knuckles, brow furrowing intently. "I've given it some thought, how we might adapt, if you like."
Because no, the way her expression ripples through discomfort did not go unnoticed. Even if the end result is a smile, Ellis can divine which thoughts might have prompted the shift. Seeks to assuage them, even though Wysteria likely won't give voice to it.
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"If you like." If Ellis has slowed the pace, Wysteria is content to lag. It would be discouraging to refuse him now when the whole point of her coming had been to wish him well and assure herself that he was in good spirits.
"But only for a few minutes. I'm not meant to be keeping you long, you recall."
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A quiet thing, easier to say knowing that she will return him to his room shortly, and descend back to the party. Simple as that.
And he doesn't hasten to say anything else, as they move through these next steps. As he turns her accordingly, this way and that, as he stamps his foot as directed. (The sound is somewhat muted, on account of his lack of boots, but it is enough, surely.) His fingers lace through hers, drawing her to a halt at the end of the hall.
"But you needn't indulge me," he tells her, taking the measure of her enthusiasm and finding himself uncertain of it.
Which is in and of itself an indicator. Wysteria's enthusiasm is rarely tempered.
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"Nonsense. It's hardly qualifies as that. And even if it did, it would only be fair."
Rather than meet his eye, she lets her attention flickers back in the direction of the doorway where Ruadh lays. Look at that silly dog with his great block head, the distance of a few meters sufficient to reduce his scars to little more than funny stripes in the half lit corridor.
"I only don't wish to disappoint you, is all," is sunny and bright as she looks back to Ellis. All cheer behind that grey makeup! "Or to misrepresent the thing in question, obviously. It has nothing to do with not wanting to do as you like. Particularly given how committed you've become to being so dreadfully serious."
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It had been a gift. Ellis is the only one left who might know this particular iteration of the dance, and he will be gone too, in due time. It's hers as much as its his own.
"And you couldn't disappoint me," he presses, firm over the words. "I'm content with this dance, if it's what you prefer."
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(Stop that. She is trying to be serious, or sober, or very cheerful in the face of these things. It's entirely inconsiderate of him to make her laugh even a little bit.)
"Well I would be disappointed," she says. "I suppose that's what I really mean."
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And so they draw to a stop in the midst of the hallway. Ruadh's head lifts, attentive to this change in activity, but does not huff to his feet.
Ellis has hold of her hand. He doesn't yield it.
"I don't want you to be disappointed," he tells her, sincere over the words. And then, more directly, "I'm sorry I wasn't here. Afterwards."
She'd been so sick when he'd left, still confined to the infirmary and Richard Dickerson's care. And he'd had to leave. What could he have done? Maybe nothing. Maybe no better than this moment, asking for a thing that only chipped at the brightness of her good spirits.
Maybe he'd know better though, if he hadn't been so far for so long while she acclimated to this loss.
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"Oh, it's all perfectly all right. You'd Warden business to see to. I'm led to believe that's some requirement of your service. And anyway, you remember. I would have made very poor company."
Ha ha ha, look at these fine little jokes.
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He hasn't ceded his grip on her hand. His thumb runs along the back of her palm as he looks into her face. Wysteria can be something very close to impenetrable. Ellis can't be certain as to whether this assurance is true or what she believes he should hear.
"I would have liked to be here. To make any part of it easier for you."
What would he have done? It's unclear even to Ellis, who is certainly not a skilled enough healer to have been of use in the infirmary, and has repeatedly had his failings as a conversationalist pointed out to him. But still, maybe he could have done something.
They won't know. It's over and done with now.
"We don't need to dance it this year. But maybe someday, once more."
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So, yes. It's a kind sentiment. Maybe if he'd stayed for a little while, she would have been less unhappy with all her clothes, and the laces of her boots, and what she looks like with her hair gone bizarrely straight from having it down so long because there would have been other things to chatter along about.
(But maybe not. She'd had plenty of company, after all.)
She blinks very rapidly. Her laugh is automatic like the swing of a joint having had its reflex point struck, but not ungenuine.
"Maybe, yes," she says after a moment. "I'll make a note of it. For next year. —Only you would have to come along to the party then, I suppose."
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put a bow on this y/y
yy