Contributed by Larissa Peltier
"Strange," thought Shadre, "She certainly doesn’t look of Nadeau." She lacked the permanent tan from that sun-beaten domain, but every rule had exceptions. Shadre watched her as a welcome distraction from his dark thoughts. Her voice was low, but the words became louder as she sang. She was joined by a drumbeat and she moved with it her arms, and in unison catching each beat and swaying her hips to meet the next. For a Nadeaun dancer that didn’t look it, she definitely was good at it, thought Shadre. The dancer tossed her hair back, exposing a graceful neck and Shadre waited in anticipation as the drumbeats and her body increased in momentum. The woman’s slow dance and lilting song became faster as she kept up with the quickening pace of the drumbeat, her heavy skirts billowed around her and her belled bracelets jangled loudly. She began circling the fire, twisting as she went, so that Shadre became concerned that she might fall into it. But her steps remained exact and the wind from her skirts made the fire flicker so that it appeared as if the flames were dancing with her.
Shadre had seen this dance before, back when he roamed the coast of Nadeau. A local had explained to him the symbolism of the dancer’s hand and arm movements. How she entreated the fire to dance with her, then spun around it enticing the flames with her skirts. It was an ancient tradition from the time when a woman named Icene was beloved by the Phoenix. Together, the two united the domains of Ralorn. In memory of the legend, the maidens of Nadeau learned to dance with fire, representing Icene’s dance with the fiery bird.
The dancer moved closer to the fire, then teasingly stepped away when it seemed the flames would singe her. She twirled as her song became more passionate. Her hair lifted, then swirled against her face as she changed directions. Shadre was mesmerized. He had never seen a lovelier vision or hear a sweeter voice. He dared not even blink, in case he missed a split second of her performance. His chest ached and he wondered why. Then, it dawned on him that she was much more than a dancer; she was someone he would die to protect. He would value every day if it meant he could see her, would adore every moment in her presence.
The drum and song were in full speed, the dancer kept up the rapid pace on her light feet with her clear voice accompanying it until the drum suddenly stopped. The dancer froze at that exact moment, but her voice continued with a softer melody, then quieted as her skirts became still. The circle of soldier broke into cheer and the dancer left the circle of fire light with a gracious smile for their applause.
Shadre was drawn to seek her out and took a step to go after her, but stopped himself when he realized why. To seek her service for the night. The vision he had witnessed and the hope for the future it evoked was an illusion. Appearances were deceiving, and the impression he had of her was a particularly cruel one. She was not his future wife. The dancer was a comfort woman who had entered the camp for customers. Shadre would rather never set eyes on her again than defile that vision of her as a dancer and no more. Besides, after that display, the woman was probably taken for the next several nights. Shadre would have to expend some of his prowess to get her for himself, and no woman, no matter how pretty, was reason enough to fight over. If one woman was lost to another, there were a dozen more vying for a man’s attention.
Shadre sighed and made his way back to his tent to sleep. He shook his head, that dancer might have been worth it. Lying on his back in his tent, Shadre mused on his day. The dancer had been the only highlight he had in a month, maybe even a year. Every day was the same, though he traveled the farthest reaches of the domains, from the cold mountains of Lindane, all the way to the rain swept coast of the Merith Sea. But every morning, he awoke and could not recall his dreams, and knew it was because there was nothing worth remembering.
“What a shame,” thought Shadre as he grew drowsy, with the image of the woman still dancing before his closed eyes. Such talent and beauty wasted on a whore.
