It was a surreal experience. He was dead – they were all dead, though somehow they yet spoke and breathed and bled – and even still, in this impossible place, there were these moments of exquisite beauty. The melodies drifting from Magnifico’s lute were both haunting and ethereal, tugging at the parts of him not entirely rendered callous by the experiences of life, and the urge to dance was overwhelming. Merasiël was at his side, her expression pinched as she forced herself to sit still even as the others – Rainald, Gestlin, even Dane – swayed alongside the music the one-time hunchback crafted.

“I do not dance,” she had said in that flat, irritated tone of her’s when Gabriel had urged her to join him. She’d explained briefly that others had attempted to teach her but all had failed, which frankly surprised him. In combat, she was so very graceful.

“My first instructor with the blade was also my dancing master,” he said with a smile. For a moment, he almost mentioned Harkwood, but at the last moment, wisely held his tongue. He had some pride, after all.

Twelve Years Ago

The urge to draw his father’s sword and simply murder the incompetent fools in front of him was hard to suppress.

Fidgeting slightly, Gabriel shifted awkwardly, a false smile plastered upon his face as he tried very hard to determine how best to say what he was thinking without insulting the four fools in front of him. They were all nobles of sufficient rank that he was, ostensibly, supposed to bow and scrape to them, but this identity Miratáriel had devised for him, this Maestro Gavriel Costigan was just quirky and difficult enough to avoid that sort of thing. He was an artist, after all, and nobility of any real standing vied for the ‘pleasure’ of his time. Thus, his Megalan accent was thick, his gestures grand and his temper short. He wore strange clothes and carried a strange (to Caithness eyes) weapon on his person at all times. Why, he even lived mostly with the elves and to these provincial fools, nothing was stranger. And because of those foibles, these Harkwood nobles would smile, nod, and inwardly laugh at him.

Gabriel hated Maestro Costigan.

“No, no, no,” he said crossly. “You must move faster, yes? Be the air!” He tried very hard not to look at the ridiculous hats that were the latest fashion – thankfully, this identity allowed him to scoff at such things, but he had little doubt Miratáriel would try to get him in one later simply because she could see how much he disliked them. How she had convinced him to playact as this chattering fool continued to elude his comprehension. “Like this,” he added before flowing into a heavily modified version of Willow Embracing the Breeze. One of the noblewomen frowned, something resembling recognition flickering in her eyes, and Gabriel stepped closer to her, elbowing her idiot husband and his feathered hat out of the way. “Count begin,” he ordered the musicians along the far wall before leading the woman through a couple of steps. Her dress made it difficult to judge her footing but of the four, she was the only one with anything resembling grace.

“Maestro,” the feathered fool began, a frown turning his already plain face ugly, and Gabriel stepped back, allowing the man to retake his place.

“Again!” Gabriel declared loudly. He caught sight of Miratáriel lurking near the doorway, her eyes dancing with glee, and gestured toward her in the imperious manner that Maestro Costigan favored. For a moment, their eyes locked and he could see her brief irritation, but he only smiled again. This stupid job had been her idea, after all, and Gabriel had gone along with it simply because he had not wanted to deal with finding other work. He hated the necessity of it – he’d had a need for money enough to live on and a place to recover from his injuries that was large enough to practice the forms, and nothing good had come of him selling his sword in recent years – but if he had to suffer, then he would share his misery. “Come, Mira!” he said loudly. “Let us show them how it must be done!”

“You will pay for this,” Miratáriel hissed in Elven as she joined him, but he only flashed her a grin before reaching toward her hand.

And then, they began to dance.

They twisted and spun and twirled, their feet constantly moving. She was a feather in the wind, a doe bounding through the woods, or perhaps a falcon swimming through the sky, and it was so much better that the heavy footed stomping that the nobles here called dancing. Back and forth they went, never actually touching because that would thoroughly ruin the tease. The four nobles watched, sometimes laughing, sometimes frowning, but never silently, and finally, Gabriel let himself spin away from Miratáriel, arresting the half twirl so he stood before the nobles.

“Much better than the clumping around like horses, no?” The other nobleman – not Feathered Fool, thankfully – scowled and Gabriel once more donned a fake smile. “Tomorrow, we shall increase the tempo, yes? Speed and grace!” He gave them all a bow that was only a half shade away from looking totally insincere and waited until they and the musicians had departed before rounding on Miratáriel. She was leaning against the wall and grinning.

“You look ridiculous,” she said in Anglish and Gabriel had to grunt in agreement. He tore his lacy jacket free and tossed it aside, not really caring where it landed.

“I do not think I can do this much longer,” he said as continued to strip the accoutrements of Gavriel Costigan off. Clad only in his pants, he drew his father’s sword and stared at it for a moment. “A dancing master,” he muttered darkly. “My first fencing master called himself that, but he never dealt with fools like that.”

“How do you know?” Miratáriel pulled two of the sparring blades from where they were cleverly concealed … on the wall, in plain sight where fools like the ones who had just left would barely glance at. She gave him a questioning look and Gabriel nodded. He placed his father’s rapier atop the nearby table and caught the sparring stick she tossed toward him. Almost before he’d even accustomed himself to its weight and balance, she slid forward aggressively. Their blades clashed.

And for a second time, they danced.

In this, Gabriel knew himself to be far better, so he stayed on the defense, calling out pointers and corrections to her stances. Her inability to connect clearly irritated so Miratáriel did as she always did when she was losing: she played dirty.

“My father wishes to speak with you,” she said and Gabriel grimaced slightly. He batted aside her clumsy thrust before twirling around her follow-up swing.

“How lovely,” he lied before falling into The Grapevine Twines. Miratáriel’s sparring sword clattered the ground. “We must work on your grip, my dear,” he said. She smirked then and he read the thoughts in her eyes. When she pounced this time, he willingly offered no defense.

And for the third time that day, they danced, though this one was more pleasurable than most.