Discover Top Posts Tagged with #dancing!

Beauty and the Doorstop

Chapter 4 - Waltz

Sound pours back into the throne room as the doors are pushed open by a pair of undead guards, granting you entrance back out onto the balcony overlooking a bustling courtyard. You offer the guard on your side a gentle dip of your head in thanks, whereas the undead opposite receives little more than a contemptuous sneer from the Chancellor.

Stepping out onto the wooden overhang, you head straight for the railings and drape your arms over the side of them, heaving a put-upon sigh and blinking languidly out over the eclectic crowd milling below. Somewhere beyond the murmurs drifting up into your ears, there's the telltale rise and fall of soft, melodious music, although casting your eyes about for a source turns up nothing and you muse, for a moment, upon where one would hide an orchestra in the Eternal Throne.

Behind you, the heavy doors close with a resounding thud and once the echo rings out, you hear the sound of footsteps trailing towards you until your peripheral vision is abruptly filled with the sickly-green profile of your unwilling chaperone.

“I think that went rather well,” you pipe up, roving your gaze sideways to the Chancellor, who's face is heavily shadowed beneath his musty hood. Even so, you don't miss the way his lips curl into a scowl.

“Pah! You think being saddled with a human for the evening constitutes any kind of success?”

“I think it could have gone much worse,” you quip, politely ignoring his dig at your species.

“Yes, thank heavens for small miracles,” he reluctantly agrees with a roll of his eyes, “Despite appearances, it appears that you can behave civilly, at a push.”

Raising your brow at the undead, you cock your head towards the courtyard below and croon, “Oooh, keep those sort of compliments coming and I might even save you a dance.”

You’re a little taken aback when his expression instantly tightens and he blasts air from his hollow nose, conveying both horror and disgust that you'd even put such a ridiculous notion forward. “I would not be caught dead paying you a compliment, let alone gracing you with a dance.”

Just this once, you decide to let his unintentional pun slide and instead purse your lips and give a shrug, entirely nonchalant as you push yourself away from the banisters and brush off the dust that has gathered on your forearms. “Whatever. I can tell you're in a foul mood, so, I'm gonna go and find Draven. Maybe he'll dance with me.”

And with that, you turn on your heel and begin to make your way towards the closest staircase, leaving the Chancellor to sputter about being dismissed so rudely. “The Blademaster?” he spits, flinging the word from his tongue as though it were poisonous, “Please, I find it hard to believe that that lout would even know the difference between a waltz and a two-step.”

Casting him a backwards glance over your shoulder, you respond, “Oh my god, I was kidding! I'm not actually going to ask him to dance.” You ignore the undead's offended scoff and as an afterthought, add, “Then again, he is probably the only person here who could turn this evening into something fun.”

The Chancellor grits his teeth so hard, his jaw creaks in protest. “Tonight is not intended to be fun,” he growls, “If you do anything to jeopardise my Lord's reputation in front of his guests-!”

“Oh relax, Chance,” you cut him off once you reach the bottom step and shoot a polite smile to an angel who has apparently never learned that it's rude to stare, “It was your Lord who told me to enjoy my time here. And that's precisely what I'm going to do.”

The Chancellor barely has a moment to let the dread wash over him at your declaration before you suddenly pick up the fabric of your dress, shoot him a wink and duck behind the leg of a nearby maker, disappearing from view.

All at once, the undead's rotten stomach flips upside down.

The Lord of Bones had given him very clear instructions, and though he's far from pleased with being demoted to chaperone for the evening, the Chancellor would much rather suffer through whatever chaperoning entails than face any punishment his king might subject him to should he fail in his duty to keep you out of trouble.

Knowing his luck, you'll probably end up falling over the side of the ship, or perhaps you'll be swallowed by one of the royal serpents...

If he had any blood left to course through his veins, the pressure would be skyrocketing.

Striking what he imagines is an authoritative posture, the undead raises his chin and strides into the sea of bodies.

All at once, he realises that searching for you like this may be a lost cause.

You're small. Far smaller than he is, and exceptionally so when compared with the angels, demons and several other species milling about the courtyard. Horns are shoves under his nose bone as he walks, his vision is constantly obscured by feathery wings and not once does he manage to catch a glimpse of a familiar black dress, nor the human wearing it.

Grinding his teeth to dust, he shoves aside a phantom guard who steps on the hem of his robes and forges ahead through the throng of creatures, all the while expertly ignoring the hateful, derisive looks shot his way by everyone he passes.

Frankly, he's just as repulsed by them as they are by him.

------

You can't deny the nostalgic rush of exhilaration that floods through you as you slip between the large creatures around you, pressing further in amongst the crowd to lose the Chancellor's icy glare.

You don't know what sort of trouble the Lord of Bones expected you to get up to whilst you're here, but he really didn't have to order his equerry to be your reluctant babysitter, as though you're little more than a teenager attending prom.

Casting your eyes about, you finally slow down and begin soaking in the unfamiliar faces around you, all the while keeping an eye out for Draven, from whose arms you'd been so rudely pulled. Cautiously avoiding the blood-red stare of a phantom guard, you're just about to start edging towards the side of the courtyard when a low, gravelly voice calls through the murmuring crowd and catches your ear. “Human! Hold a moment, if you will!”

Twisting your head over one shoulder, you're surprised and admittedly apprehensive to see an absolutely titanic angel waving his golden gauntlet at you and moving towards you through the sea of faces, all of whom seem more than happy to part like waves around the mountain of a man. His face is obscured by the signature helmet of an angelic champion, and from his back, a pair of armoured wings protrude with shafts of shimmering, solid light taking the place of primary and secondary feathers.

Realising that you're staring, you quickly turn around to face him properly, only to freeze in place seconds later when you spot the figure stomping towards you at his side.

A demon? You have to blink to be sure that your eyes aren't playing tricks on you.

But no, that is definitely an angel and a demon stalking up to you, their shoulders brushing against one another as if their species weren't mortal enemies. From the looks of him, he's a member of Samael's demonic legion, and like his companion, he's a Champion, if his sweeping horns and sheer size are any indication. His cloven hooves are polished black, his skin the colour of rust, and each, shuddering step he takes causes his gleaming battle armour to jangle and the ground to tremble beneath your feet.

When his blazing, red eyes swivel down to meet yours, you instantly avert your gaze to the angel instead.

Nobody has ever told you not to look a demon in the eye, but with him, it just feels like a sensible thing to do, in the same way looking a bull in the eye is considered ill-advised.

The unusual pair stomp right up to you before coming to a simultaneous halt, casting you in their immense shadows. It takes considerable effort to stop yourself from moving away a few steps. Instead, you crane your neck back and shoot them both an inviting, albeit cautious smile, unsticking your tongue from the roof of your mouth.

However, before you can say a word, the angel suddenly smashes a clenched fist against his breastplate and booms out, “Forgive us for intruding upon your evening, fair Y/n, of Earth.”

Mouth hanging agape around a greeting, you're further stunned when he bends himself into a low bow that brings his head level with yours, his blue eyes sparkling as he stares at you from within the darkness of his helm. “My companion and I heard whispers that the champion of humanity would be a guest at this foregathering, and we hoped we might have the chance to speak with you.”

You have to snap your jaw shut with an audible click and shoot a glance towards the demon, whose cragged face remains passive, permanently fixed into a battle-worn scowl that reminds you a little of War's.

Yet in spite of the ferocious expression that perfectly suits his appearance, the demon opens his mouth and a soft, husky voice slides out from between his jagged teeth, low and deep enough that you can feel it resonate inside your chest. “It is good to meet you, hu- Y/n.”

He tries lifting his lips into some semblance of a smile, though your focus is drawn tentatively to his fangs which, you notice with a lurch, are each as long as your hand. He must have heard you gulp, because his eyes suddenly widen and he turns rigid, snapping his mouth shut once more.

A quick glance down at his fidgeting hands leads you to realise something quite unusual. Apparently, if his body language is any indication, this demon, whose gaze has now dropped to your feet, is perhaps more nervous to be standing in front of you than you are to be in front of him.

Taking a chance that you've actually met the one demon in existence who is – of all things – shy, you straighten yourself up and turn to face the angel, your smile widening to show off your own teeth. “I'm afraid you both have me at a disadvantage. You know my name, but I'm afraid I haven't had the pleasure of learning yours.”

Belatedly, it occurs to you that this is actually the first time you've been alone amongst angels and demons without a Horseman at your side. 'Just be polite', you remind yourself, 'there's no reason that they'd start anything here...'

The demon begins to shuffle on his feet and his nose twitches at the air. Suddenly, you're reminded of Fury, and how she'd taught you that the hellish species are adept at smelling fear.

What wonderful timing, that you'd happen to recall that lesson now.

The angel meanwhile, actually jerks backwards at your words and he hurries to say, “Ah, but of course! Apologies. My name is Bariel, former member of the Seventh Legion under commander Usiel. And this-” He pauses to clap a hand on his companion's spiky shoulder and sticks out his chest proudly. “- is Valdralos. A faithful ally. And my irreplaceable friend.”

You can't help but to raise your eyebrows in response. Even a nearby cluster of skeletons garbed in rusty armour pause their conversation, skulls twisting around to glare disdainfully at the duo. All it takes is one, swift look from Valdralos to send them jerking back to their previous topic, acting for all the world as if they hadn't just been caught staring by the intimidating demon.

Bariel's eyes don't leave yours though, and you notice that his chest has stilled completely, as though he's holding his breath. If he wasn't such a hulking juggernaut peering down at a human wearing a dress and high heels, you'd almost be convinced that he looks... nervous.

“Well, it's a pleasure to meet you both.” Lifting a hand to scratch at the back of your neck, you suck in a breath and add, “It's not every day you see an angel introduce a demon as his friend.”

Valdralos lowers his eyes to the ground whilst Bariel's shoulders slump and you realise with a sudden swell of sympathy that they must be expecting... what? Rejection? Disapproval?

It makes sense that they would.

The mere signing of a peace treaty does not magically cause the once-warring species to shake hands and make up. A peace treaty does not erase eons of mutual hatred and bloody history.

It's an unspoken yet very well-established rule that angels will forever detest demons and demons will forever detest angels.

How could anyone be expected to think otherwise?

A smile touches your cheeks, genuine and warm. “I have to say, it's a damn shame we don't see it more often. You two are a real pair of mavericks, aren't you?” Thrusting your hand out towards a bewildered Bariel, you quirk your eyebrow at him playfully. “Charmed.”

The angel's head bobs up and down as he glances between your smiling face and your proffered hand until eventually, recognition flashes in his eyes and he positively beams.

Electing to reach out with his enormous, golden gauntlet, he gingerly captures your fingers beneath his thumb and draws your hand up to his helm and all at once, your grin falters when he dips his head to press a feather-light kiss against the top of your knuckles.

Taken wildly aback by the chivalrous move, you press the fingertips of your free hand against your chest, trying and failing to restrain a bashful grin.

Still beaming, Bariel allows you to have your arm back after another moment and you have to firmly tell yourself to offer your hand to Valdralos as well, without mentioning that you'd expected a handshake. No need to embarrass them, after all.

The demon seems far less certain than his angelic companion, and you note that he's significantly more cautious as he slides his claws around your hand.

They're smooth as polished marble against your skin, but warm, rather than cool, just skirting below the line of what you'd consider an uncomfortable temperature to touch. That heat only persists as he lowers his head down and very carefully brushes the curve of a tusk against your knuckles.

It's the closest thing to a kiss that he can give, with so many teeth standing between his lips and your skin, yet the sentiment is clear and you give him an encouraging smile when his eyes flicker up to gauge your reaction.

“Wow, you two certainly know how to greet a lady,” you tell them both in a stilted laugh, allowing your arm to fall back against your side, “Though, I have to ask, of all the guests here at this shindig, how come you want to speak with me?”

The pair of them exchange glances, their brows raised in surprise. It's Bariel who turns to face you first and he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, replying, “Why... how could we miss the chance to meet the Champion of Humanity herself?”

“Champion?!” you laugh lightly, pressing a hand to your cheek, “Well now you're just trying to flatter me.”

“I only speak the truth, fair lady!” Bariel insists, and he almost sounds offended, “It is a rare privilege to stand before the human who aided in bringing down Corruption.”

Before you can argue that it had been Death who did almost all of the legwork in that regard, Valdralos pipes up, “Is it true that an entire village of makers have pledged fealty to you?”

“I – Uh..” You tear your eyes off the angel and glance at his demon companion, stammering, “I mean, they're my friends. They haven't like, sworn an oath of allegiance, or anything.”

“It is not just makers,” Bariel tells Valdralos eagerly before he turns back to address you, “You have the Riders in your corner - The Charred Council's most vicious enforcers of the Law. To have allied yourself to all Four...” He pauses, appraising you with an impressed hum. “Truly, you must be quite the force to be reckoned with.”

At his side, the demon nods in agreement.

“Now, I'm really not too sure about that...”

“Ah, Jamaerah's scriptures said you were modest,” Bariel adds amusedly.

“Jamaerah?” you reply, blinking in surprise, “The Scribe?”

“The very same! He had much to say about you in his latest scriptures.”

“....Scriptures?”

“Certainly!” the angel nods, “He has written extensively on the subject of the fair and fearsome Y/n! Those tomes are the most frequently requested in the Ivory Spire's library.”

“Huh... Funny. He never mentioned that to me. Or asked for my input on a biography about me,” you grumble folding your arms and casting your gaze off to the side, ignoring the amusement of the other who who seem positively delighted by the prospect of you confronting the Scribe about this.

Just as you open your mouth to ask them, hesitantly, if they've read the book, a flash of green suddenly appears in the corner of your eye and you absentmindedly glance sideways at it, turning rigid barely a split-second later. “Uh oh.”

In a flash, Valdralos's grin drops and his spine snaps straight. “Uh oh?” he echoes as Bariel tries to follow your line of sight, his eyes narrowing to slits beneath his helm.

“Ugh, it's the Chancellor,” you explain, grimacing when the undead's glare zeroes in on you and he begins storming in your direction.

“A wretched creature, that one,” Bariel muses before he suddenly squares his shoulders and gives you a very serious stare, “Does he bedevil you, fair lady?”

Eyeing the Chancellor around the angel's shoulder, you knit your brows together and hum, “In a... manner of speaking...”

At that, Bariel turns to Valdralos and the two of them seem to share in a silent conversation that concludes once the former looks back down at you and booms, “Fear not, Friend! Leave it to us.” With that, he clasps his hand on the demon's shoulder. “Come, Brother! Let us impede the knave, that he might think twice before he tries to bother our new ally again.”

At his side, Valdralos smiles conspiratorially and offers you a sweeping bow. “Y/n,” he murmurs, twisting about and flicking his tail as the Chancellor approaches.

You're tempted to stick around and listen to what's sure to be an amusing conversation, but they're giving you an opportunity to escape and have an evening filled with fun, rather than insults and stuffy comments. So, you decide not to squander the moment.

Throwing a grateful smile at your new friends, you whisper, “Thank you!” before turning to slip away between a pair of makers just as Bariel's thunderous voice reaches your ear.

“Ah! Chancellor! Just the corpse we were hoping to run into...”

Slinking off, you spare just a second to feel bad for the undead, though the moment passes as quickly as it arrives once you hear the Chancellor shriek at your unexpected bodyguards to ‘get the hell out of his way.

The next half hour is spent in much the same manner. You move languidly through the gathered creatures on the hunt for your friend, Draven, only to inevitably find yourself accosted by someone who wants you to lend them your ear.

Most are curious about your story - insisting that they hear the first-hand account of the Apocalypse and how you came to meet Death. Others, namely makers, want to ask you certain things like, ‘is a human’s skin really as thin as a sheet of parchment?’

Inevitably though, you would catch a glimpse of the Chancellor, each time looking more furious than the last, and you would be forced to beat-feet with a hasty apology tossed to your bemused audience.

After escaping from the clutches of an especially studious angel who seemed more interested in your biology than any of the words that came out of your mouth, you find yourself catching the eye of a towering demoness and slow your walk to something far less hurried, intrigued by the brazen stare she’s fixed you under.

Quirking her brow-ridge at you suggestively, her amber gaze rolls from your head to your toes and back up again, an inviting smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

Well.. It would be rude not to go and introduce yourself. Offering her a tip of your head, you begin to edge around a group of undead and try not to grin when she straightens up, her tail flicking excitedly at your approach.

“Well, well, well...” a slimy, rasping voice suddenly drawls behind you, sending shivers up and down your spine, just as it does every time you hear it, “What do we have here?”

Despite the generally unappealing timbre of the voice itself, you can't deny that you've come to enjoy the sound of it, for it heralds the presence of one of your more.... interesting friends.

All at once, the demoness narrows her eyes at something over your shoulder and her smile turns into a sneer. With a haughty snap of her inverted wings, she turns her nose up at you and stalks off into the crowd, and you take a moment to mourn her departure before a radiant smile bursts to life on your face and you whirl about, clasping your hands in front of you excitedly. “Vulgrim!”

Perhaps the most conniving, untrustworthy and wily merchant who ever lived hovers over you like a dark cloud, his long, sinewy arms spread wide as he gestures at you vaguely.

“The representative of humanity, herself!” he exclaims, shifting his luminous, green eyes from left to right and squinting dubiously at the empty space surrounding you, “Here by herself, no less. And not a Horseman in sight!” Surprised, he huffs and lifts his cragged brow at you. “All this situation lacks is a silver platter for you to serve up your soul to me!”

“It would be the perfect opportunity to take it,” you quip, striding towards him with your arms open invitingly, “And with this crowd, you could just slip a dagger in my back, steal my soul and vanish, and nobody would be any the wiser! Too many suspects. Too many motives.”

With well-practiced ease, Vulgrim flits around you as you come at him, narrowly escaping the threat of a hug.

Your back now facing him, he wastes no time in snapping out a hand to drag the tip of his long, sharp claw across your shoulder blades, raising the hairs on the back of your neck.

“There, you see?” he calls triumphantly as you spin around and swat his fingers away, “It could have been as easy as that. One prick, and your soul would have belonged to me. Do you know how many offers I've had for it? Really, it's unkind of you to dangle temptation in front of my face like this..”

Draping a hand over your hip, you shoot the demon a coy smirk, peering up at him through your lashes. “Vulgrim, I've told you before. You can have my soul after I die, from natural causes.”

The merchant's cheshire grin stretches impossibly wide, revealing every one of his gleaming fangs. “Can I get that in writing?”

You let out a snort before you can stop yourself and your smirk turns infinitely softer as you let out a fond sigh, “Gosh, it's been too long, Vulgrim. I've missed hearing about all the ways you're gonna steal my soul.”

With his usual flair, he touches his claws to his chest and retorts, “And I have missed dreaming of all the riches your soul will bring me, once I have it in my grasp.”

You're both aware that this is perhaps the closest you'll ever come to admitting that you've missed each other at all.

A beat of silence passes between you, broken by intermittent pieces of conversation that filter in from the groups gathered around the courtyard.

Then, simultaneously, the pair of you break down into subdued chuckles that you try to hide behind your hand, whilst Vulgrim's vestigial wings flutter in amusement.

Where the rest of the universe - his fellow demons included - openly hate him and meet him with a sneer or a snarl, you only ever seem to have smiles for him, as though you’re genuinely pleased to see him.

It took Vulgrim an inordinately long time to realise that you are.

He has yet to admit that what you have together is any close to a ‘friendship,’ but to the dismay of his own pride, through tenacity and a too-trusting spirit, you’re successfully wearing him down...

“Now then, my dear,” he purrs, and there, at last, is the up and down glance you've been expecting, “What brings you to a place like this? Unguarded. Unarmed, and...” He sweeps closer, peering down at you and exhaling hotly through his nostrils. “- ravishing.”

Tipping your face away to hide the smile that burns your cheeks, you give his chest a playful push, and he dutifully floats backwards several inches to a less invasive distance with an insufferably smug smile playing underneath his hood.

“I am unguarded,” you say, pointedly, “because the Horsemen don't even know I'm here. Unarmed because I don't plan on getting into any fights. And...” Trailing off, you glance down to peer at yourself for a moment before you lift your gaze to his once again. “You really think I look nice?”

“Nice, is a lazy word for it,” he harrumphs, waving a hand up and down at you, “I believe I said ravishing. Dressed to kill, I might add..” Pausing, he gives you another once-over before he adds, “In fact, you look as though you're here on a revenge quest.”

“I am not here on any 'revenge quest,” you scoff and roll your eyes with a smirk, “I'll have you know that I~ had an invitation.”

The demon raises his brows, both impressed and amazed. “An invitation? From the Lord of Bones? My, my, my, we are moving up in the world, aren't we? I wasn't aware the old king used postal services.”

“He didn't. He sent his Chancellor to fetch me.”

Throwing his head back, Vulgrim lets out a bark of laughter. “Ha! That old stiff-neck has been reduced to errand boy, has he?”

“Sure has! Turned up right at my addre-....” Suddenly, you blink, your mouth parting as something occurs to you. With the excitement of seeing Vulgrim again, you'd plum forgotten exactly how the Chancellor had showed up in your bedroom when, so far as you were aware, he had no knowledge of where you live.

“Say, Vulgrim?” you hum sweetly.

If he suspects anything, he doesn't show it. “Yes, my dear?”

You fold your arms and all facade of sweetness fades into something cold and distinctly unamused. “Would you care to tell me how the Chancellor showed up where I lived, when I have not once given him, nor any other undead – including Draven – my address?”

The demon's face drops. “Aah...” he falters in a thin voice, “The old sod told you about our deal, didn't he?”

Narrowing your eyes, you draw yourself up and reply, “That 'old sod' waltzed right into my bedroom after I came out of the shower and told me that you-” you stab a finger up into his face, “-sold him my personal details! I can't believe you! Just who else have you ‘sold’ my info to?”

You advance on him until he suddenly throws his hands up in a placating gesture and stutters, “O-only the Chancellor, you have my word!”

“Your word? Vulgrim, come on. It's you.”

“It's the truth!” he insists, “When I made the deal, I – I knew the Chancellor was no threat to you. For as much as he is a stuffed-shirt, he's no threat.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

You start to notice that the eyes of surrounding angels, demons and even the few undead scattered about are surreptitiously sneaking glances at the commotion. Letting out a huff, you lower your voice and plaster on a smile for the onlookers, hissing out the side of your mouth, “You are so lucky we’re friends, you overgrown snake.”

Relieved, the demon's grin merely falls right back into place. Privately, he'll admit he relishes the status of ‘friend.’ He knows by now, after all, that you do consider him one – an admission that had outraged the Horsemen and utterly floored the demon himself when they all heard you say it for the first time. It's one of the merchant's fonder memories.

“No more handing out my address to strangers, okay?” you huff, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I'm not sure I can handle another heart-attack like seeing the Chancellor in my bedroom after I shower.”

“You have my word,” he says again, puffing out his chest and lifting one hand into the air, placing the other over the spot a heart would be, if he had one, “Merchant's honour, dear, I'll not be sharing any more of your personal details.”

Cocking a brow, you deadpan, “Unless you get something in return, right?”

“Yes, unless I get something-” Blinking, he throws you a filthy look and sucks in a dramatic gasp, his face twisting up until he actually looks affronted at your suggestion, “Now that hurts. You have asked me not to, and so, I shall not. A demon's word is his law, you know.”

“Oh, of course! How could I have possibly forgotten the demon code of honour?” Heaving an enormously put-upon sigh, you don't even notice that you've begun to smile again, too amused by Vulgrim's flair for the dramatic. “I suppose I have no choice but to trust you.”

The warmth that touches his cheeks is little more than his own imagination playing tricks on him, he tells himself, trying arduously not to dwell on the fact that nobody has ever said those words to him in all his born days.

“What are you doing here anyway?” you ask, “Did you get the royal invite too?”

A chuckle slips off his silver tongue and he leans in close to you, lifting a palm up to his mouth and muttering conspiratorially, “What do you think I traded your address for?”

Incredulous, you raise your eyebrows at him and scoff. “Well, damn. I sure hope it turns out to be worth it. Snake.”

“Time is sure to tell,” he nods sagely, glancing around at the so-called festivities, “Though I must say, this evening has already improved significantly, now that I know you're here.”

You blink, taken aback and your chest tightens. “Aw, Vulgrim! That's really-”

“-If the offers for your soul are excessive,” he cuts you off eagerly, rubbing his hands together, “I can't wait to see what I could get for the whole human.”

Your mouth falls open to blurt out a squawk of indignation and you slap at his arm, causing the demon to shrink away with a gleeful titter, when all of a sudden -

“VULGRIM!”

“Oh, no..” you groan, squeezing your eyes shut, “Here comes the fun police.”

The pair of you swivel about, your eyes landing on an exceptionally livid undead.

With a face like thunder, the Chancellor storms towards you, sweeping aside several demons in his way, all of whom snap and growl at him as their hands drift instinctively down to their weapons. The undead doesn't even acknowledge a single one of them. His glare is fixed unsettlingly upon you, severe enough that you actually take a step back as he descends upon you like a wolf stalking a cornered rabbit.

But just then, to your utter astonishment, Vulgrim's shadowy figure drifts lazily out in front of you, enough to intercept the raging Chancellor and draw his stride to a dead halt.

“Why, Chancellor!” the demon exclaims, throwing his arms out and further obscuring you from your chaperone's unwavering glare, “What brings you down amongst the hoi polloi?”

The Chancellor however, doesn't even grace Vulgrim with a glance, instead shouldering past him after taking the time to growl, “Out of my way, demon!”

A flash of something dark and dangerous crosses Vulgrim’s expression as he swivels around to glare hotly after the undead, who comes to an abrupt standstill bare inches from your toes.

And just like that, he's looming over you again, his teeth clenched so tightly that you worry they might shatter inside what's left of his gums. Before you can utter a word, his arm suddenly darts out and you wince when his long, spindly fingers curl around your bicep and he gives it an urgent squeeze, sharpened fingernails digging into your flesh.

“Did he hurt you?” he seethes in a deep tone you've never heard from him before. He lowers his head until you're almost sharing his hood.

Baffled, you can do little else but peer back at him and stammer, “I-I.. Did who what?”

Risking a glance over his shoulder, you catch Vulgrim's eye, though the demon appears almost as dumbfounded as you are and all he offers you a helpless shrug.

Another jerk from the Chancellor's hand has your attention darting back to stare up into his milky eyes and you gulp, feeling dozens of eyes glued to you now.

“Did he. Lay a finger. On you?” he grinds out from between his teeth, wafting stale air into the scant space between your faces.

Suddenly, cool understanding settles over your racing heart.

Ah. He's worried about his orders. Of course. Wouldn't want to disappoint his Lord by letting someone hurt you while you're his guest, after all.

With the shock of his abrupt behaviour waning, your painted lips dip into an unimpressed frown and you grunt, shrugging backwards out of his grasp and smoothing out your dress. “It's fine, Chancellor,” you sigh, “No need to worry about your precious orders. Vulgrim's a friend. He wouldn't hurt me.”

Behind the undead, Vulgrim sports a mile-wide smile whereas the Chancellor's mouth drops open with the sound of snapping sinew and he all but shrieks, “Wh- You and this.. this cur, are friends!?”

He looks to the demon, aghast, not because you'd choose to befriend such an unpalatable lout, but because you'd choose Vulgrim's company over his own. Vulgrim. One of the most despised demons in all of Hell!

It promptly occurs to him that he really oughtn't give a damn whether or not you prefer the merchant. Shaking his head firmly, he hardens his expression and ushers you away from Vulgrim with a firm push to your shoulder, much to your irritation.

“Hey!” you sputter indignantly, but the Chancellor ignores you, rounding on the demon instead and using an arm to corral you behind his rigid spine.

“You are here by the grace of my Lord, merchant,” he spits, “Should I find you trying to pester his guests again, I will see to it that you are... ejected.”

The crowd has entirely abandoned the pretence of carrying on with its own conversations.

At the undead's words, you draw yourself up until the top of your head almost comes level with his shoulder and you shove his arm away, stepping around him and hissing, “Chancellor! You can't just decide who your guests talk to. That's ridiculous!”

From somewhere in the sea of faces, you hear a gruff voice chime in, “Hear, hear!”

Turning his sneer onto you, the undead retorts, “I'm not deciding who they can talk to, just who you can talk to!”

He doesn't even give you the chance to utter the very choice words that rise into your mouth before he suddenly snatches up your wrist and sweeps through the onlookers, dragging you behind him at an uncomfortable pace, his stride nearly twice as long as yours, not to mention that you're in heels, to boot.

You try your best to tug your hand out of his grasp as he weaves through everyone, leaving you in his wake to offer up meek apologies to the demons and angels that he muscles past.

To say that you're mortified is an understatement.

Vivid, red eyes and sombre white burn into you, sending a flash of heat up behind your ears like flames. Tripping over the tail of a large, pale-skinned demon, you toss her your most apologetic glance and try to call, “I'm sorry!” but another pull on your hand has you stumbling yet again. “Ugh, this is why I’ve been avoiding you all evening.”

You don’t notice the Chancellor’s flinch, but he doesn't bother to look back at you, too focused on finding gaps through the crowd.

Glowering up at his back, you groan, “Where are you even dragging me off to?”

“Somewhere quieter,” he snaps brusquely, “Where I can keep an eye on you and make sure you don't start any trouble.”

“Trouble!?” you seethe, sucking down a readying breath and letting your chest fill with fury, more than eager to give him a verbal dressing-down.

You're interrupted, however, when a strong but gentle hand captures the wrist that isn't fastened in the Chancellor's pinching grip. Letting out a startled yelp, you're about to glance backwards over a shoulder when the new hand gives a hard yank and suddenly, you're pulled free of your prison and spun around, having just a second to celebrate the taste of freedom before you crash into somebody's broad, decaying chest.

“Sorry about the rough landing, love,” a familiar voice rumbles close to your ear, “But you looked like you could use a hand.”

Craning your neck back, you're delighted yet surprised to find Draven peering down at you with his skeletal grin just inches from your nose. You give him a shy quirk of your lips, peeling one hand away from his chest to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

There are mutters and whispers from the beings around you, all of which are silenced by a loud and shrill, “Blademaster!”

Draven's calloused palms land on your shoulders and he manoeuvres you behind him, glaring hard at the Chancellor for a second, then flashing a grin that would likely have been debonair when he was alive. “Chancellor. I hope you don't mind if I steal the lady for a while. I need her help with something...”

The older undead narrows his eyes, first at you, then at the Blademaster. “And what, pray tell, could she possibly help you with?”

You scowl at the way he phrases that, but your expression softens as you glance up at Draven, admittedly curious by what his excuse will be.

“Uh...” Eyes darting to and fro, he hesitates, the cocksure grin falling away underneath the weight of several dozen stares. Just then, with the ever-constant murmur of the crowd dulled to silence, your ears are twitched by a different sound, one decidedly out of place in the Eternal Throne.

Music.

“Is that... My god, that sound like Strauss,” you exclaim incredulously, “That's the waltz!”

“I, er... yes. What kind of a party would this be without music?” Draven, hums, glad for the distraction.

“This is not a party!” the Chancellor shrieks.

The Blademaster's jaw lifts slightly in a smirk, replying, “No? Well, it's about to be...”

The Chancellor's mouth snaps shut, stunned speechless for once, giving Draven a moment to turn towards you and dip into a low bow, extending a hand out towards you. “My friend, would you care to dance?”

A thick hush settles over the crowd and all eyes turn to you, waiting with bated breath to hear your response.

Draven is staring down at you expectantly and there's a fleeting shadow between his brow bones. The shadow of doubt.

He assumes you’ll refuse.

Behind you, the Chancellor's shrivelled guts give a lurch as you tentatively reach out your hand and drape it over Draven's far larger appendage. To his sallow eyes, the two of you look clumsy together, bumbling and ill-matched. You're a ... somewhat refined woman, as it turns out, whilst Draven, for as long as the Chancellor has known him, is nothing but an unmannerly cad, hardly fit to sully your soft, warm flesh.

The Chancellor's veins have long since dried up, but he can remember how his blood would boil when he was a living man. The memory of it festers as what he thinks is outrage grows and swells inside him, like a fire burning out of control.

You're smiling up at the Blademaster like he'd hung the moon.

Then, with kind, discerning eyes, you nod your head and part your striking lips to say, “I'd love to.”

You'd love to?

The Chancellor recoils as if you'd struck him.

Disappointment sits like a bitter pill on his tongue, and even trying to swallow it down doesn't dislodge the taste. What in the world is happening to him?

Rather than give either you or the Blademaster the satisfaction of seeing him flounder, he plasters on an expression of total indifference and simply crosses his arms, turning his nose up at the pair of you. To his dismay, you don't even seem to notice him. Your eyes are entirely ensnared by Draven's spellbinding charm.

Gracefully, the Blademaster draws you in close until your chests bump into each other and you let out a small gasp, finding your hand guided up onto his shoulder, your fingers sliding around the rusty blade impaled straight down through it.

He barely manages to suppress a shiver.

Sometimes, when the desert is dark and his duties are done for another day, Draven finds himself alone in the undercroft, imagining that he has your hands touching him like this, warm and soft and alive. The real thing however, is a thousand times better than whatever he can conjure in his dreams. Here, he can feel you, smell the intoxicating aroma drifting off your neck where you've dabbed some perfume that permeates his nose cavity and chases away the desert's musty stench.

One of Draven's large, raw-hide hands slides enticingly down to land on the curve of your hip whilst his other curls more tightly around your free hand, interlacing his fingers with your own.

The undead appendage is cool and rough against your skin, callouses weathered in by a lifetime of wielding a sword, followed by an after-lifetime of it too.

“You don't mind an audience, do you?” he murmurs, canting his head towards the gaping crowd.

Perhaps once, you would definitely have cared. But after the resurrection, you’ve grown accustomed to stares, to the feeling of peoples’ eyes on you wherever you go, because you are the human who sits behind the Horsemen when they ride through the cities. You are the human who appeared on the grainy news footage alongside mythical giants and explained in detail the events following the Apocalypse. Considering the horrors you’ve seen, an audience is the last thing you’re afraid of.

In response to Draven’s question, you flash him a grin, stepping delicately after him as he begins to move. “Let them watch,” you sigh and lean your cheek against his sternum, “I haven't danced in years.”

The Blademaster's chuckle rolls over you, thrumming inside your chest and then he sighs wistfully, letting his eyelids slip shut, and it suddenly occurs to you that you aren’t the only human in this courtyard today, just the only one who happens to be, strictly speaking, alive.

Slowly, blissfully content in one another's company, you both start to fall into a simple, yet graceful waltz, swaying together across the courtyard and hardly paying the slightest bit of attention to the demons that move reverently out of your way, nor the angels who stare at you slack-jawed, stunned by such a scandalous display of closeness.

Delightedly, you laugh as Draven sweeps his arm out, sending you into a gentle spin before he tugs you close to his body once more, as though he can't bear to be apart from you for more than a second.

Someone in the crowd murmurs appreciatively. You're fairly certain you even hear someone clap.

In hindsight, you ought to have guessed that the Chancellor would try to interfere eventually, but in the moment, he doesn’t even enter your mind.

Chatter has begun to trickle steadily back into the courtyard, with the majority of conversation centred around the strangeness of dancing, when all of a sudden, something in the atmosphere snaps.

There's a commotion to your right and someone marches out of the crowd. You twist your head around at the approach of stamping footsteps and promptly find your hand snatched out of Draven's. Gasping, you blink as you crash into another undead, whose grip on your fingers is inescapable, yet surprisingly gentle, and another bony hand reaches down to press against your lower back, trapping you against a cold, rigid body.

“Really,” the Chancellor's voice hisses above your head and you try pulling away to stare up into his hooded face, your jaw stuck open incredulously as he continues, “if you're going to introduce other species to the art of dance, you ought to at least try and do it properly.”

#dancing!

Trending Tags

Recently Viewed Tags

#dancing!