In Bloom
Martel and Yuan wanted to marry. They wanted to marry even though the war had not yet ended, that every day they woke, safe and alive, they counted their blessings. They’d fallen in love, somehow, in the fray. And they wanted the world to know that despite its darkness, there was something to celebrate, something to cherish and hold, something to cast light.
Naturally, they wed in spring. Yuan felt that Martel was the embodiment of spring, eyes green and sparkly-soft as dewdrops. She was the rare bloom sprouting through the snow. There were more attendees than expected. Mithos and Kratos, of course. Emila—a friend of Martel’s—and at least a dozen fellow soldiers from their camp. And Noishe. They could have invited others, if they’d had more gald to spare. Toasts were made and drinks imbibed (a few too many, particularly by Emila), and a single musician softly strummed a mandolin, her voice airy as the night breeze. A group had gathered before her, some coupled, some single, swaying to the rhythm. Kratos was never one for parties. Not much for people. Certainly not one for toasts. He’d offered his congratulations to his friends—his family—in private, where he could say what he meant to whom he meant without stutter or stumble or the unbearable sting in his cheeks. He sat away from the others, watching, as was his habit in crowds. Yuan laughed with a group of men from the camp. One of them clapped him on the back. Martel stood with them, but her attention turned toward Kratos. Alone again, she shook her head. She made her way to him. “Enjoying yourself?” she asked him. She took a sip of what looked like brandy. “Well…it’s a party,” Kratos said. “So...not particularly?” “Heh, not particularly.” She held out her free hand. “Dance with me?” His brows raised. “I know all you hoity-toity knights in the capital are taught how to dance...isn’t it like a requirement or something? Part of your aristocratic training?” “I was a bit of a failure at my aristocratic training.” “Perfect. I have absolutely no aristocratic training.” He laughed, stood, and took her extended hand. “Perfect,” he said. She downed her drink and left the glass on the table. He guided them to the makeshift dance floor. “It goes like this, right?” She said as she placed one hand on his shoulder, kept the other in his. “If you’re being formal about it,” he said. “Seems only appropriate given that this is such a formal affair,” she teased. “Heh. Right.” He placed a hand on her waist. They began a slow, awkward rhythm. After a few moments, Martel spoke. “Emila has been staring at you all night, Kratos.” “Has she?” “I bet if you asked her, she’d dance with you. If you tried to appear remotely approachable, she might even ask you...” “I’d rather dance with someone I actually know.” “I don’t think I ever would have known Yuan, not like I do, if one of us hadn’t made that first move.” “Martel...” His cheeks flushed. “What?” “I...I’m here for you and Yuan. Not for anyone else.” “You’re a catch, Kratos. You’re smart and kind and handso—”
“Careful,” he said quietly, a small smirk on his lips. “You’re a married woman.” She laughed. “Oh, please. I’m just trying to say you could have what Yuan and I have.” “Perhaps in another life,” he said. “Why not this life?” He let out a long breath and shook his head. “Just a sense I have.” “I have a different sense.” “You would,” he said. She hummed. Her dewdrop eyes glimmered as the music swelled. “Spin me,” she said. When he did, her dress billowed around her like the petals of a white rose.
There is no music tonight, only Kratos and Anna. And Noishe. Wind stirs around them, and the crickets chirp in a chorus. Life had been paused after Martel’s death. Whatever he, Mithos, and Yuan had done the past millennia, they had hardly been living. But he’d been working to live again. He’d even removed his exsphere, an unprecedented risk that no amount of studying and deliberation could have fully prepared him for.
He’d forgotten how it felt to be human, what it felt like to lay beside someone else and feel warmth. Tenderness. Surely, the time for love had long passed—if there ever had been such a time for him—hadn’t it? But the rise and fall of her chest reminds him that she—they—are alive, and what are the odds of that? Perhaps there is awe yet to be felt, wonders yet to be seen, simple as the dappled moonlight across her cheek. “Anna?” he whispers. “Yeah?” “Care to dance with me?” She laughs and quirks a brow. Kratos, dancing? Is it a joke? “Where is this coming from?” she says, a smile still playing on her lips. “Just...from me.” He props himself on an elbow, holds out a hand. His expression is so sincere that her smile fades. It’s not a joke. “Sure,” she says. “I’ll dance with you.” She takes his hand. He stands and guides her to her feet. He places a hand tentatively on her waist. She places hers on his shoulder. She giggles and lets out a few humming notes, then says, “What music are we dancing to?” “Hmm. The crickets?” he says. She smiles. “To the crickets,” she says. “And the wind?” “To the crickets and the wind.” Kratos tries to lead some steps. She sways and keeps reminding herself to move her feet. “Where’d you learn to dance?” she says “It was a social expectation in high society...back in the day.” “Back in the day,” she sighs. “How surreal…all that time.”
He is quiet for several moments.
“Right now, it just feels that it was…meant to be. Though, perhaps that feels surreal.” He lets out a breath. “Where did you learn to dance?” “You’re kidding” she says. “I’ve mostly just seen other people dance. This is pretty much a first for me.” “Well, you’re a natural.” “Oh, please,” she says. She absolutely doesn’t feel like a natural. “Maybe it seems that way because we’re dancing to the crickets and the wind.” He laughs. A gale sends leaves fluttering around them. “Hey, Kratos?” she says, grinning. “Spin me?” A playful light catches in his eye. She spins out in a flurry of laughter and when she spins back, her nose is nearly pressed against his chest. Standing here, so close, warmth soft as the petals of a sun-kissed rose blossoms in her chest.
