When the scrolls had been dropped from the sky, Fiona had read all about the festivities that Denocte was going to be hosting, with no intention of going. Perhaps if parties and crowds were her thing, if intrigue and mystery appealed to her. Even, perhaps, if it were not for the heartbreaking truth she had returned to when she had returned to her home in Terrastella with the other members of her court.

She had no home to return to. She had, instead, only a shell of a home; a burned structure with black scouring the walls and ash covering the floor. The rains had been heavy enough to put out the flames before they had reduced the entire thing to rubble, however much of the furniture within was unable to be saved. All the things that reminded her of her father, things he had built himself. Her books, sketches, notes.

Coming to terms with that truth did not make Fiona want to attend any sort of celebration, even one involving the magical and dreamlike. That was until the letter arrived, carried on the wind from Delumine. Rolled within the parchment had been a few herbs, and the script, flowing and elegant, belonged to Atreus. He asked her to meet him in Denocte for the ball when the time came, and Fiona could not find it in herself to turn him down. Perhaps, even, her heart beat a little quicker at the thought.

So, when the Dusk Court champion finds herself once more among the walls of the Night Court, she couldn’t help but remember how difficult the first trip had been. But standing there inside the citadel looking at all the glamor that surrounded her, Fiona was quickly swept away. Just inside the doors the room was lined with tables covered in masks and finery of every kind. She let herself be drawn through the crowd like a leaf swept away by a river, until she was standing before a table, alone in a sea of horses bustling around her.

Fiona looked down at the masks, overwhelmed by the selection as she tried to select one for the ball but instead found herself bombarded. One woman, dressed in silver and black draped a sheer scarf around her shoulders. It fell against her skin light as a breeze, covering part of her back and wrapping twice around her neck. She tucked the ends in so that it wouldn’t snag.

Another, wearing colors like the sunset gently placed a mask over her face, tying it with a gossamer ribbon. The first held up a mirror for her to see herself, and Fiona thought for a moment that she was in a dream. The metal of the mask was thin and flexible, and it hugged the curve of her face almost like fabric. It was silver, slightly lavender in color, and as delicate looking as the butterfly wings it was designed after. She was in awe, and wished that she could thank them properly, but they had already moved on, leaving her once again alone in the crowd.

Writing.

over the moaning bones
of those who quit and chose to remain

The masses pushed by her without much thought or consideration. Many were in pairs, or groups, headed in one direction or another. Clearly, they all had a destination in mind as they swept up and away through the growing crowd. Fiona did not know which way to turn, and considered more than once stepping into the flow of bodies, until someone stepped in front of her. The man smiled and and bowed and she was a fool not to be expecting Atreus for it was, after all, his invitation that had her standing here. But, with a dark mask that covered most of his face she thought, perhaps, that he could be anyone. Even when he spoke and his familiar voice washed over her ears, she smiled a little too pleasantly, a little too platonically.

Though Fiona had no skirt with which to curtsy, her cheeks warmed a little under his attention and she dropped her head under the guise of her own bow. When her lavender eyes lifted to Atreus’ own, she nodded. But oh, if she didn’t glance about for a second, scanning the crowd as if looking for someone. The champion of community may not have wanted to come to the masquerade of her own volition, but now that she was here with the promise of a dance and a handsome partner, she had to admit it was a little easier to let go of the truths sitting, waiting back home for her in Terrastella.

It was a little easier to forget, and to, maybe, have a little bit of fun.

So, when she accompanied Atreus to the dance floor, the music swaying through the air and brushing gently across her skin, she held in the mirth that wanted to play in her eyes, and stood a very approriate distance from him, as if he were simply a stranger. Just a masked suitor, searching for a dance, and nothing more. And she moved, gracefully, delicately, careful not to brush up against him even though her skin tingled at his nearness, at the warmth of him. If she could have laughed she would have had to held it in. Perhaps, she thought, there was a little bit more of a reason for her to be here after all, for it brought out a side of her which was long dormant among the still recent tragedies. A side that was as blooming as a flower.

Writing.

over the moaning bones
of those who quit and chose to remain

The music serenaded them, twisting and twirling her about and about. The soft fabric of the scarf that had been draped about her shoulders shimmered in the dim light, and as she moved it shifted, whispering across her skin. Fiona’s lavender eyes watched the man across from her with curiosity and intrigue and, perhaps something else that she wasn’t quite sure that she could identify. Oh, Atreus had occupied her thoughts much ever since their chance encounter in the swamp, and every moment thereafter.

He was a constant presence in her mind, one that she did not try and push away. He was her knight in shining armor who had rescued her from the floods and the fire of her home. He was a rock at her side through everything that had happened in Terrastella, she realized. From their joint appointment to champions, to Asterion’s ascension as Sovereign, the appearance of the hospital, the disasters and now. Fiona looked upon Atreus and found that she wanted him to stay there, at her side, through whatever else may come.

If her heart skipped a beat, her face did not betray it.

And yet, through every twist and turn he grew impossibly closer to her until he was but a mere few inches away. She could feel the heat of his body on her skin, and when his shoulder brushed against hers, her cheeks ignited with warmth. Her lavender eyes fell away bashfully, the barest of smiles turning up the corner of her lips. But it was his voice that drew her gaze back to him, soft lilac meeting bright gold. His words reached through the din of the music and laughter and talking and she thought no, no.

And then his head was next to hers, his mouth by her ear, and she was pressing her nose against his neck. She was leaning into him, all along thinking, no, I would never tear you to pieces. She thought that she would only ever build him up, if he would let her. Then Fiona seemed to realize what she had done, the line she thought she had crossed, and she stepped back self consciously. The heat in her cheeks grew even warmer as she turned her head away, hiding her eyes behind the shining frame of her butterfly mask. Oh, how stupid she was. How foolish she felt, to have done such a silly thing.

Writing.

over the moaning bones
of those who quit and chose to remain

The feelings swelling within Fiona like a wave were strange to her. Oh, she has loved. Her father, her people, her friends, but never hasld her heart fluttered to swiftly, so unsure. Never before had another been on her thoughts so constantly, never seeing their eyes in her mind when she closed her own. She thought of Atreus and with him came truths she, perhaps, had never studied before. He was the first she looked to for strength, the first she leaned on when she was in need. And he had always been right there.

When he spoke, she closed her eyes and listened. And when the warmth of his skin neared hers again, when his muzzle brushed across the bridge of her nose, this time she did not pull away. Fiona released the breath she'd been holding and lifted her head, pushing away the feelings of foolishness she'd had. Could it be, then, that she was not acting out of place? That her affections were not unwanted?

The lavender woman looked at Atreus and knew she needed not words to show him how she felt. No, she simply looked into his eyes, bright and gold, and Fiona laid bare for him her fears and her uncertainties, her willowy, wavering heart. She laid bare for him the fiber of her soul where her passions and her sorrows rested. But, most importantly, she laid bare for him her heart, where her fondness for him lived—burrowed deep into every hummingbird beat.

Writing.

over the moaning bones
of those who quit and chose to remain

They looked into each other eyes so long that Fiona began to forget where they were, standing in the middle of the dance floor surrounded by floating, twirling strangers and lilting, humming music. She looked into his eyes so long that she thought she might never resurface from them, that they might swallow her and she would forever be shrouded in the warmth of their gold. She thought she could live in them and be satisfied.

When Atreus closed his eyes she could almost feel his hope, his refief, that she would take him how he was and how he wanted her. She smiled, leaning into him when he curled his neck about her. Fiona felt at home in his embrace, more at home than perhaps she has felt in awhile. So at home, she thought, that the pain of losing her childhood house was something she could bear a little easier in his arms.

He spoke her name and she reveled in it like a cool spring rain, letting it wash over her. It cleansed her of her fears, like a song that reached into her soul and made her feel, above all things, calm and sure. And when Atreus pulled her closer to him she went, willingly, to press against his side. She brushed her muzzle over his skin as if she could etch her response into its surface, as if it would stay there forever, a reminder of her promise.

Always.

Come what may, no matter the distance between them or the time or the place. Her heart repeated it with every beat—thump, thump, thump—always, always, always. Even as the music drifted and faded and the dancers spun away, and away, and away, leaving them to their world and their vow, long into the night.

Writing.