worthallthis (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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pennysheets2023-06-08 12:30 am
worthallthis) wrote in pennysheets2023-06-08 12:30 am
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Swept into Faerie for @punched_hitler
The realms of faerie love their frivolity. Great gatherings with music and food and dancing and chatter. Soldier doesn't know which great fae lord this is; it isn't like it matters. He's not here to kill any of them. He's here to prevent anything from happening to his own master, so he keeps his attention on him, as is only appropriate.
Though he does find his gaze drifting from his master to the swirl of movement and color from the ballroom floor, from time to time. There are flashes of leaves and talons and raven wings among the dancers, in cloths and hair and eyes, but the rhythm is engaging, the melody is pleasant, and he knows the steps. His feet itch to move, even though he knows he could probably never keep up with the true faerie dancers, and might lose what little he has left of himself if he tries. He still kind of wants to.
He knows he mustn't ask. But apparently his master can tell what he wants, because he finds the cool eyes on him when his gaze wanders back where it belongs. He straightens up, guilty and afraid, but the old fae just smiles indulgently.
"Go on, pet," he says. "I am safe enough for now."
Soldier goes. He doesn't have the same grace as most of the people on that dance floor, as heavy as he is with the metal growing out of his bones, but he has some value as a dancer still. He spins the real fae around to the beat as it picks up in response to the newcomer, strange steps from another life that they manage to pick up with laughter and chattering amongst themselves-- not for him, never for him, but still pleasant to have around him-- and feels almost happy enough to smile. It won't last, it never lasts, and he might come away from the dance with new fangs hooked into his mind, but he doesn't care. He wants to dance.
Though he does find his gaze drifting from his master to the swirl of movement and color from the ballroom floor, from time to time. There are flashes of leaves and talons and raven wings among the dancers, in cloths and hair and eyes, but the rhythm is engaging, the melody is pleasant, and he knows the steps. His feet itch to move, even though he knows he could probably never keep up with the true faerie dancers, and might lose what little he has left of himself if he tries. He still kind of wants to.
He knows he mustn't ask. But apparently his master can tell what he wants, because he finds the cool eyes on him when his gaze wanders back where it belongs. He straightens up, guilty and afraid, but the old fae just smiles indulgently.
"Go on, pet," he says. "I am safe enough for now."
Soldier goes. He doesn't have the same grace as most of the people on that dance floor, as heavy as he is with the metal growing out of his bones, but he has some value as a dancer still. He spins the real fae around to the beat as it picks up in response to the newcomer, strange steps from another life that they manage to pick up with laughter and chattering amongst themselves-- not for him, never for him, but still pleasant to have around him-- and feels almost happy enough to smile. It won't last, it never lasts, and he might come away from the dance with new fangs hooked into his mind, but he doesn't care. He wants to dance.