[AW] Dance of the Wayward Flame

[Fever]

 

At first, Fever recoiled her neck in a snake-like fashion, eyes narrowing at the mare who receded back into the shadows. The dancer is accustomed to being spit at, turned away, children asked to cover their eyes as if her natural sensuality is a debasement to the Gods. It felt very familiar, and Fever couldn’t help but simmer with an ancient rage – like the concubines who came before her, cursed for existing in their own skin, sentenced to sitting pretty and caged, where even a glance would be interpreted as a leer. Yes, Fever knew the price for being a beautiful creature – every motion she would make was sin, every smile and invitation, though tantalizing and charming, was inherently evil. 

Duo-toned ears pivot against the back of her head, clearly irritated that she had wasted her time coming over and asking the stranger to dance, to come into the light, to throw back her head and feel the wind in her hair, to be unapologetically a woman.

For here she stood, meek now, unable to meet her gaze, a flower trampled by the weight of the wind. No better than the nobles that turned their noses up – not only had she been not worth the time, but she made Fever look like a fool.

Fever had mistaken her for someone wishing to be free from the confines of the shadows. Each hushed word that managed to crawl from the brown muzzle of the stranger was strained, paranoid and cautious, as if she was certain someone would be here watching her.
An unemotional, blank slate settled on the abstract mare’s face. She reminded her of her mother, Temper, who had always been too afraid to climb the wall with her. They were similar in demeanor: quiet, weak, too afraid to do anything about the shit predicaments they were in. She grimaced internally, remembered the way she had to beg her own mama to try and escape the slave holdings, desperate to save herself and Temper from their fate.

But Temper always chose the shadows. Always chose safety. Would never risk anything because she could never manifest the reward. 

Not Fever.

She’d never succumb to suffering while all the other Solterran children got to play in the sun.

Not me.

Fever was a fighter. Always will be.  

“You’re not sorry.” She says, aloof and dry in comparison to the warmth she previously showed. “Don’t apologize for protecting yourself.”

She assumes that with the tone of her voice and choice of words, she will only cause the flower to wilt more. Figures. A piece of advise on how to be stronger, to be more confident, would be twisted and deciphered as hostile. 

She turns her body away from the woman, preparing to depart, and she hesitates slightly, a whisper of a reminder, her mothers soft kisses on her temple, the sight of leaving her slave-mates behind as they all cowered, too afraid to ever leave. She was reminded of how she murdered her masters, how she finally gave them freedom, and who even knows if they had the gall to pursue it.

Fever moves her chin over her shoulder, a flutter of lashes framing her intense stare as she looks back to the other, regarding her words: "If I am seen in attendance, it would be an unfortunate occurrence." The dancer wonders, briefly, if she is enslaved in Solterra. If she should be gentler with her words.

“You won’t ever be free from whomever you're avoiding if you continue to dig your grave in the shadows.” Her mouth is soft, yet her eyes are knives and her words are blunt. Fever didn’t have a mothering bone in her body, tenderness wasn’t her strong suit, but she was generous with her enlightenment, and she would have taken each of her slave-mates by the hand and escorted them into the sun that they were promised if they were simply brave enough to take a chance.

But you can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved. If she wished to be obedient, so be it.




@Swahili gentle is not her strong suit lol

inspirational piece for the music played at Fever's tent

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