#oc: martha dor-aldon

[enchantress-of-words]

°× Saltare amoris ×°

When you meet her, you dance.

It's slow, at first. Uncertain, sluggish, unpracticed. You stumble and you blush and you murmur "oops"s and "sorry"s, but you don't take your gaze off her eyes, and she thinks - maybe, just maybe, she can trust you; maybe, maybe she can open up just enough to let you in, too look over you with anxiety as you gently examine her heart (her world); and you lift your eyes up on her, and you smile, and you say, "this is perfect; you are perfect; guide me through the rest of you".

She blushes.

You take her hand, and you continue to dance.

It's more confident now. You know the moves, you know the rhythm; you guide her through the ballroom, smiling at her, and her face is painted with that smirk she reserves just for you; and one night, you lean over to her ear and ask, "will you marry me?" and that night, you share your very first kiss.

You still dance.

You twirl and spin, looking at her face and grinning; she tilts her head to the side, and every touch she leaves on you burnes with need and love. You wouldn't trade it for the world, you wouldn't change a single thing, because you are in love, so deeply, madly, mindlessly in love; and you have all the time in the world, in that ballroom, dancing to the everchanging music of life.

You dance even when you're reminded, again and again, that life does change; when the grief is so hard it makes you struggle to hold onto her; when you bury your son, when tears stream down your face - you dance, even though your dance is bitter and the piece playing is a requiem. You purse your lips, you look into her eyes - now distant, cold and unfamiliar (so painfully unfamiliar), and you dance.

It never falls back, it'll never return - that innocence, that serenity of your old dances, but you manage. Your hearts break, but love mends them into something stronger, something calmer, something more mature; and you hold her close; you close your eyes, and you listen to her heartbeat.

And when you're ripped appart, when you're chained deep underground, when you're stripped of the last remains of humanity and dignity - you scream her name, you bury the memories of your ballroom deep inside yourself; and when you forget how gentle was the touch of the sun, you still remeber her grey eyes - and when you forget the sound of birdsongs, you're reminded of her gentle laugh, of her quiet whispers.

So when you're finally free, you look at her, and the music stops.

(It wasn't playing for almost nine centuries already.)

She looks at you, too, and in her eyes is fear and hurt and you left me and I thought you were dead; but she also cries, and her hands are outstretched.

And the orchestra whispers, and the notes shuffle and the maestro holds his breath,

and you step forward,

and you dance.