“Of course! A lady must be attuned to any environment while dancing,” she declared with the kind of certainty only she held. It was most certainly not because she wished to dance with a friend and rushed ahead. No, no, a lady would never be so impatient. Ahem. Still, she led her friend in the dance, excitement thrumming in each step. As always with Clair.

As Lady Silque spoke, her bright smile faded into something just as fond but with some more… grace, she would say. “My brother has been faring well, of course. He is not here but I have been corresponding with him in letters. Of the Deliverance, I have seen a few here and they, too, seem to be faring well. Forsyth, Lucas and Python… Do inform me if he has done anything less than knightly, a sure eventuality with him.” A sigh as she shook her head, even if slightly fond. 

Still, it soured at the memory of one she had much, much, much preferred to forget. However… it would be cruel to keep this from a friend lest they be startled by his appearance. Perhaps they could avoid him together. “I have seen the much less desired sight of Lord Berkut. Mila willing I will not see him ever again… still, he is a student, so do be wary should you catch sight of him.” 

As the music went on, Clair’s expression returned to a smile. “And yourself? I hope you have been faring well, my lady.”

In Mila's name, how on earth does Lady Clair know where she's going?

The cleric laughs to herself, a little embarrassed at finding the dance so dificult. She hopes against hope that she hasn't been stomping all over her partner's toes in the dark. "Since we last saw each other, I have mostly been in Rigel healing the wounded. I only recently arrived in Fodlan by complete accident." There's a story to be told there, but Silque merely shakes her head, smiling it off. "You needn't worry, though. Sir Python has already agreed to send word of me back home," she informs cheerfully, "so he's actually very well behaved tonight, hee hee!"

A step and a spin, performed with spirit if not finesse, before Silque lets her voice drop, as if telling a secret. "But is that really the late Lord Berkut? In the flesh? When I spilled—um, came across him earlier, I almost thought him to be a ghost!" Still, ghosts cannot summon black fire, nor can they wear jackets with sleeves to deposit stains on.

"Ah, there's really no need for thanks, Sue," the cleric replies warmly, accepting the flower and slotting it into her own set. "I really was just curious! Your outfit is so intricate that I knew you must have chosen each part with great care." With a smile, she clinks her own cup against the one in Sue's hand, the bright chime of the glass like a peal of laughter.

"It's so wonderful to learn about all the details. I can tell that it means a lot to you."

All those flourishes, the looping embroidery, that had seemed so foreign and regal—they are now tempered by the softness of Sue's words, the weight of the faith she places in them. It's clear to see how the deel tells the story of her people, who keep their loved ones close to the chest, who roam as one with the land, trusting in divine protection; the garb of a young woman who holds herself with both humility and pride.

Oh, now that she thinks about it, perhaps Silque should have worn her habit to the ball, too. But wouldn't it have been so heavy and difficult to dance in…!

Silque shakes her head, smiling at herself. "In Valentia, the continent I come from, we worship a pair of sibling dragons," she begins. "Merciful Mila, the Earth Mother, who breathed life into the soil so that it bears fruit, and mighty Duma, the War Father, who gifted mankind with strength to survive the winter. As a cleric of the… the Faithful, I travel the land to carry forth their blessing." The grace of Mila and Duma both, now. "So that it may save others, as it once saved me."

It all sounds so serene, saintly, even; but Silque knows better, has seen the evil that lies in the hearts of men. So she sets her glass down, tilts her head to look Sue in the eye, and asks—

"But did your people ever grow complacent?"

The smile dims from her eyes, something like steel taking its place. "You see, the people of Valentia eventually turned to cruelty, in their thirst for Duma's power. Or they sank into sloth, taking Mila's bounty for granted." That is the other reason she travels, she knows; to set faith to rights and rescue others from their own depravity.

"I was wondering if you, if those of Sacae have learned, instead… how to honor divine blessing without indulging in wickedness."

“ Yes, ” Ninian hides a chuckle behind her hand, “ and I trust you’ll do just fine. ”

So will the next pair, she expects... At least until they take the stage. Their nerves are palpable, and she can only watch in horror as the disaster builds, and builds...

(Oh, she could have warned them instead; but, selfish and fearful wretch that she is, she holds her tongue.)

When they fall the dancer neither flinches nor gasps but only lowers her shoulders in silence, withholding a sigh as the tension drains out of her... Only for it to return as Silque pulls her along in haste.

She could never begrudge the cleric, this or aught else, but the fact remains she is neither a healer nor a conversationalist. All she can do is stand around uselessly, even once the woman recovers and... And... ...

... ... ... Ah.

Ninian meant to offer their names at least, so now she’s standing there uselessly and with her mouth hanging open, but...

... A gorgeous couple? The two of them?

Or, no. Not even that, because at least it is true of Silque, but her...? Be a couple with anyone, let alone a gorgeous and dashing couple, as the man says in agreement...?

Thank the Spirits, he follows that up with a remark she can make sense of. The flush is still on her cheeks, the blood still in her ears, but she has pretended to be a dancer for long enough that it comes easily.

“ ... ... Ah... My lord, you... needn’t worry... I am, ” a freak who senses danger, “ going to lead us with redoubled care... ”

She has not said her name, or Silque’s, or even begun to address the idea that... The thought alone makes her feel nausea. She doesn’t deserve that, and Silque... Silque deserves better than the likes of her.

Yet, selfish and fearful wretch that she is, she draws closer to the other girl as if for protection. For someone to hide behind.

“ ... Ah... ... ... ”

Silque is just about ask Ninian what the other pair could possibly mean, when the dancer herself seems to confirm their words. But upon glancing back at her friend, shy and timid once more, Silque only remembers to offer a smile at the girl's reassurance of their safety… before nodding and turning back to the others.

"I am Silque, a cleric from Valentia," she offers warmly, stepping into a simple bow, "and I suppose also a student of the Blue Lions house now, haha! Ninian here is my dance partner for tonight." Lifting their joined hands, the cleric leans a little closer to the pair in a stage whisper, as if sharing a secret that was never meant to be kept. "Though she is a far better dancer than I am, you know. I trust her completely. As long as she believes in our ability, then I do, too."

Still, even Silque can recognize from her limited experience that the waltz Chrom and Alear had performed was not an easy one. "To be honest, Chrom, I think you could give yourself a little more credit," she offers with a laugh, bumping her shoulder against Ninian's. "Those turns were so fast! I'm sure with a little more practice, next year—"

On and on she would have went, chatterbox that she is, had there not been a call from the high table then, for the winning pair to report in, please!

Do they mean us? Silque shoots a wide-eyed look at her partner. "Oh, sorry, I think we have to get going," she says, waving as she turns to leave. "Thank you for your kind words! I hope you have a lovely rest of the night—"

And if Alear and Chrom were to still be listening as her voice fades with distance, they might be able to eventually catch a single question, asked in mildly concerning bewilderment:

"…Um, Ninian, do we have a dance for the next round?"

not that he seems to be working at all; he's cleaned up far more nicely than she had ever seen him. and so she lifts her chin, scanning the room curiously with wide eyes---until she spots another familiar knight, in the same greens as the flower pinned to python's lapel.

"…ah, I see. so nothing's really changed, hmm?" she teases, bringing a hand up to cover her giggle.

Python follows Silque’s line of sight, though he can take a guess as to what she’s seen. His own eyes have drifted over to passively keep track of his old friend whenever they separate, same as usual.

“Same old, same old. As long as I’ve got that one working himself to death, it’s not like there’s much left for me to pick up after.”

He sighs, slumping forward like he’s been burdened with a heavy weight.

“Guess I’ll have to send a letter to the militia to let ‘em know we’ve lost a star healer up in the north. I’ll bet the monastery’s glad to have ya, though.” His slouch shifts, half-shielding his mouth from wandering eyes with an open palm as he continues, “If you thought the drama back home was rough, just wait ‘til you see some of the crap the highborns and weirdos get up to out here.”

How many moons has it been, though, since she simply disappeared off the shores of Rigel? Her smile softens, a little embarrassed. “But, ah, I do need to trouble you to send word back to the continent. The priesthood must be worried sick by now…"

She thought it would come to this, sooner or later, between how much she danced before the Cup... and how much it took to bring them this far. It is not Silque’s fault, of course: the cleric would still have been happy if they’d lost in the first round. No, it was she who went above and beyond in her efforts, carrying the load of two.

The first two rounds were one thing, but the semifinals... Truth is, they should have lost. She lacks the build to lift another, but she was so focused on choosing the right piece while respecting Silque’s limits that she forgot her own. Now her arms and her back are paying for it, never mind her legs.

Or rather... They will pay for it.

This is no foresight, but simple experience. There’s nothing for healing magic to mend before they set out, no muscle at its limit already. There is only a warning... and the conscious decision not to heed it.

They have made it this far, so she may as well push through to the end... and, more importantly, Silque has learned to dance at last. She cannot give up here. Her body will simply have to bear one last waltz.

— But she is weak, always has been, and her determination alone is not enough.

If nothing else, she is dancing blind. Silque is dancing blind. They are both spared the sight of her ankle twisting, not to mention the sight of her missteps afterwards. She clenches her teeth and keeps going.

The effort garners her five points for style, at least. Leaning on Silque, she braces for worse. Two in technique, her third three in choreography... A perfect ten, except only in total. She hasn’t a right to anger, so her shoulders hunch instead.

“ Forgive me, ” she whispers, hair falling over her face. “ I... Ah... ”

The cleric bites her lip, mildly puzzled. Is it nerves, at the size of the crowd, or at the complexity of the dance they had chosen? Is it doubt at Silque's own mediocre skills? But the cleric had made no effort to feign otherwise, not for any of their previous preparations. And she'd thought… she'd thought…

No. They had already danced a thousand steps together tonight, and Silque had cherished each and every one. Whatever the outcome, she had promised to never let Ninian fall.

So she ties the sash around her eyes, places her hope in frigid hands to guide her in the dark. When those same hands fumble in alarm, Silque only holds on tighter, willing Mila's blessing to grace them both. And now, as for Silque's own scores: nine in style, one in technique, three in choreo---

---oh, Silque will readily admit it, she's not really listening. Instead she's busy supporting Ninian's weight, as to relieve the strain on her ankle; wishing that the dancer would instead lift her chin, because hadn't it been her stubborn, quiet pride that drove her to continue dancing through the the pain?

It must have been beautiful. Silque wishes she could have seen.

Slowly, the cleric shakes her head with a gentle smile. "There's no need to be ashamed," she replies. "Not when it is you who carried us this far in the first place. Even I know that much!" A quiet laugh, and then, "In fact, I… I should thank you, Ninian, for teaching me."

Now, to get the poor girl to a healer! Ever so carefully, they step off the stage together, arms linked... making way for the final competitors to take the spotlight.

For the bouquet, forgotten on someone’s desk, is now all blue. The purple orchid she gave Silque was her last, and no wonder. It was a choice made not for aesthetics... but for the abiding thought that blue orchids do not exist in nature. In other words: they suit her, strange creature that she is.

And still, still this cleric would look on her brethren as gods... and look on her — her! — kindly. More than that, this cleric would make of her blossom a favor. A blessing.

“ ... ... Ah... ... I... ”

Instead of speaking, she clutches Silque’s own blossom tightly. Come to think of it, she ought to put it away — safeguard it —, lest it become crumpled while she makes merry with the bundle in hand...

Ninian begins to lift her free hand without a thought, only to then start and slowly let it fall; because, if Silque touches her —

“ ... Ah... Miss Silque... My — my hands are cold, ” is all she can muster. It may well be hard to believe, for the perfectly normal — perfectly human — flush to her face. She tries again: “ I would hate to... Ah... ”

Frighten you away. Even still, Ninian finds herself made weak by that kind gaze, that swift fondness, that ... — With her heart in her throat, she lifts her hand and dares to brush her fingertips against Silque’s, ice cold and all.

Ninian is no liar. Her hands are frigid, positively starved for warmth. But merciful Mila had cradled Rigel so dearly, even in its desolation, even in its bitter cruelty—so what is a little biting chill against the swell of fondness in Silque's heart, overflowing?

"...I really don't mind," this time, her laugh is a little quieter, but no less earnest for it. "My years of pilgrimage in the north has made me quite accustomed to the cold. And the lights of the stage, the cheers of the crowd, will be more than enough to keep us warm, don't you think?"

Not to mention Ninian's own radiance in performance, still a far cry from the sweetly bashful expression she wears now. But better this embarrassment than the permafrost of departure, the tragedy of flowers wilting, ungifted—because someone, somewhere, was too afraid to express how they felt.

Life is far too precious of a gift to spend with such restraint. So Silque catches Ninian's other wrist, too; gently encloses two pairs of hands around her tulip, as if in joint prayer.

Because Ninian did not assure her she has talent merely for the sake of it, or as some paltry (and needless) comfort. No, being a dancer, she would never lie about such a thing. Silque may be unrefined due to lack of practice, yet she is a natural performer still... and all the more impressive for it.

One must hone one’s technique, if not to perfection then near enough to that; learn each and every step by heart, searing the choreography into one’s mind well enough to dance it backwards or from the middle; to then, and only then, perform while one dances. Surrendering oneself seems to be no effort at all — but the effortlessness is performance, too.

Silque, though, Silque begins from the end without even realizing she’s doing it. For a beginner to receive perfect scores twice is a feat already, let alone perfect scores for style, that most challenging of aspects to many a dancer. Ninian does not think she could properly express her admiration for the cleric if she tried.

Not in words, anyway. Yet much of style is in fact emotion, and so she returns to the first round’s ballad in spirit with the waltz from Ylisse. It may be fast-paced, but the cleric has shown she can keep up and the steps are easy... ... Ah.

Perhaps Silque’s confidence has suffered a blow after all, even if she herself does not realize it. The fault for that is Ninian’s and only Ninian’s, never mind that this dear girl has said otherwise. Even if the fault were Silque’s, it would not matter when she has only ever looked on a beast with kindness.

And so the dancer grips her hands more tightly still, pulls her in closer and makes it so her missteps are incorporated into the dance even in defiance of choreography, for knowing it means she can mold it.

She earns another perfect score for style, having surrendered herself to much more than the dance without trying; her second nine for technique, for if they are going to be harsh on her partner then she is going to leave no room for criticism; and eight for choreography, because she’s pinned her hopes on the right piece at last.

Not that she would have minded if they’d given her waltz a three, seeing as —

“ I do not care what scores they give you, ” she whispers, something unyielding as ice in her voice for the first time. “ No matter what, you were radiant to me, Silque. ”

So pondered the cleric as they stand behind the curtain, waiting for their cue. She shifts from foot to foot for last-minute practice, replaying Ninian's instructions over and over in her head. The words of a teacher, a partner, a friend; and so were those of Sister Greta, all those years ago in the priory, when she had rapped a ruler disapprovingly against Silque's knuckles and said:

You cannot heal from the heart. Temper the cast with form, and then infuse form with Mila's blessing.

So for this dance, when the lilting notes of the waltz begins, Silque pays attention, notices: the velvet of Ninian's golden shawl catches the overhead lights. The extension of their joined hands echoes the sweeping waterfall of Ninian's hair. The turns with the two of them pressed together masks Silque's characteristic stumbles; the alternating twirls sets Ninian's brocade gown and her own cotton skirt in contrast.

Yet all this seeing is still no trouble at all, because to notice Ninian is still to know that she is beautiful. You are radiant to me, too, the cleric doesn't get to reply, steady and sure, before her scores are revealed:

One in technique... okay, there's really no fixing that, Eight in choreography — but she'd finally gotten the steps right, this time! And a meager four in style, the announcer's voice sounding almost disappointed — still, the cleric merely nods, eyes brightening.

"It's a tradeoff…!" she whispers as they exit the stage, finally understanding. "I must lose myself in the dance, yes? But my movements must not be lost. That's… that's so difficult!" She wraps an arm around Ninian's elbow, leaning in with a laugh. "Is that what you've been trying to do all this time?"

Oughhhhh, there’s another roundddddd…….

It makes sense now that she’s thinking about it, yeah, but she DIDN’T think about it before! She only prepared the one dance! She thought she’d just have to do that and be done with it!!!!

Oh gosh and they’re going first again too. Oh no oh no oh no oh noooo…

Style: 3 | Choreography: 1 | Technique: 10 Total: 14

Elise raises her arms out in the space before her, spread apart as if to accommodate another person that’s not there — a technique she’d come up with for practicing her footwork in front of the mirror in her room solo when Leo wasn’t available or was insisting something about a ‘break’. A technique that works well for what she needs it to do, yeah, she is killing it on the steps — but one that also looks stupid and she knows it.

She sends Hilda an uncomfortably strained smile as she turns past in a sweeping step for what feels like the millionth time; both an apology and a plea. She is so sorry. Hilda save us.

This time, Elise was up first. She mimed a sort-of ballroom dance without a partner --- certainly well executed but perhaps a little quirky for the judges' tastes.

Hilda strutted on to the dance floor once more and threw in a few more arm movements, pointing at each of the judges in turn on beat, and ending with a little jump and a twirl, her heel lifted into a pointed toe and her hands folded under her chin upon the landing.

Style: 8 | Choreography: 4 | Technique: 1 Total: 13

Most importantly, Ninian had agreed to go on stage with her.

And so, she decided on a medley of many dances in the hopes that it would be more entertaining than a ballad while remaining appropriate for Silque’s level. None of the dances involved were particularly difficult in themselves, after all. The challenge was in shifting from one style to another, but surely the cleric was spontaneous enough for the task... That, and if they were lucky any mistakes would go unnoticed or seem intentional in the slight chaos.

Suffice it to say, she underestimated how difficult a medley would be for Silque. Her smile as the music ended was apologetic, and she squeezed the other girl’s hand in apology as much as in reassurance while the judges deliberated...

Ten in style, because together they made chaos into a free-spirited revelry; eight in technique, because she was willing to be less than perfect if it helped Silque’s talent shine; and three in choreography, because it had been no more than a medley... And no less, Ninian thought with another smile to her partner, hand lightly resting in hers.

With bated breath, she smoothes down her skirt, lifts her chin, and receives:

a paired three in choreography, as Ninian had worked so hard to partner her, a ten — ten, indeed! — in style, because Ninian knows and loves her craft, and one for technique, because, well — hahaha!

"Oh, Ninian, it's fine," Silque teases under her breath, giggling at herself. "It's my fault if anyone's. I was the one who suggested a change of pace, but those changes were just so fast!" In the end, Silque had just done whatever felt right at the time… and those motions certainly can't have been difficult or precise.

But the smile doesn't, can't leave her eyes, not even if she tried to force it to. She just can't bring herself to mind too much, though perhaps she should, for the dancer's sake. Even as she stumbled along, the ground stood solid under her feet, guiding her forward as always; and even when she spun out of control, she could lean in, confident in the knowledge that the music would spin her right back into the arms of a beloved girl.

   It only teased out further nervousness within Chrom’s heart. 

   And perhaps such thoughts influenced Chrom as he brought Alear into the dance to follow. His steps were focused, though each step taken failed to stand out. His technique was practiced, indicative of someone who spent time, and time again, yet they are middling still. While their opponents garnered rapturous cheer, hardly a peep could be heard among those watching Chrom and Alear’s each step.

   And… perhaps those thoughts were infectious still. Alear had been stiff their entire way through, perhaps the nervousness of performance in tandem with the many eyes that had been on her far longer than just this moment alone were consuming her. And perhaps that, by proxy, began to consume Chrom in tow. 

   For all it took was a singular misstep,

   And everything, like a house of cards, came crashing before all those unwitting souls who bear witness. 

   Chrom is unable to catch himself, though his partner cushions his fall as she pulls them both to the ground. Thus, nary physical pain stems from the collision. Yet, when he is able to sit up, and able to realize how he had fallen. 

   “Oh in Naga’s name- I AM SO SORRY! Are you okay?!” He shoots upright, face flushed brilliant crimson from embarrassment. He scrambles to help Alear to her feet, though perhaps the present humiliation added to his fumbling. 

   And the scores teased by the judges hardly helped either. As Chrom so awkwardly helps Alear to her feet, he is graded; a six for his technique, clear as day of someone practiced in a noble waltz, a five for his style, for it left much to be desired, though the skill he possessed was clear as day regardless.

   And a measly one for his choreography, fitting, as two bumbling idiots tumbling to the ground following a sort of romantic display was hardly something to be considered as choreography at all. 

   “Fuck,” he quietly curses under his breath, opting to take his partner's hand once they both are finally standing upright. 

The young man pulls his partner to her feet, and Silque can tell, with years of experience, that the hand on her back is not placed just for show. So as soon as they step off stage, the cleric rushes to greet them, pulling Ninian along in her wake.

"Are either of you badly hurt?" White magic flickers in her hands as she worries, crouching to examine the girl's injury. "Goodness, that's red. It's sure to bruise, unless we---"

With those murmured words, Silque presses her palm firmly to the girl's shoulders, closing her eyes on the exhale. The earth mother's grace drains from her fingers, stitching the tissue whole once more.

Hiking up her skirt without a care in the world, Silque starts running towards her friend as fast as she can. What a joy it is for their paths to cross again, after so many long years apart, and on such a fine night as this one! Lady Clair, always as fierce in the air as she is dazzling in the ballroom---and so it was never any surprise to Silque, that so many boys vy for her hand, hehe.

With a breathless laugh, Silque stumbles to a stop and drops into a clumsy bow. "Ah, I'm so glad to see you! Your dress is absolutely beautiful, by the way. In this light, it almost looks like the butterflies are settling atop the flowers…"

As a display, Silque hovers one of her own tulips beneath a fluttering mirage, before extending the flower to the lady with a smile.

A familiar voice could be heard from the left—oh! A fond smile painted itself upon Clair’s face as she turned to see Lady Silque. The sight was familiar, the same she’d see up in the skies. Enough so that it was… almost confusing? Lady Silque rushed towards her in a rather unladylike manner, if she were to be cruel, but so very her. It was hard to find fault with such a case.

She waited for the other to be some steps away from her before curtsying. “Salutations! A pleasure to see you here as well, Lady Silque.” As she rose, it was easier to see Lady Silque’s dress. Simple yet elegant, she approved.

“Your dress is quite lovely as well! I do love the ribbons especially, they suit you well.”

A tulip placed just above her dress, a hyacinth placed beside Lady Silque’s hair. “In this lighting, it seems to match you perfectly. Won’t you take it from me?” Her gaze drifted to the dance floor only some steps away. A brightness to her eyes as she turned back to Lady Silque.

Grey-blue eyes glance at the dimly lit dance floor, then shift back to meet the excited gaze of her friend. “You must be very confident, Lady Clair, as to suggest a dance in the dark!” Silque teases, laughing, not bothering to bring a hand up to cover it. “But I won’t question you further. Surely I do not know the steps as well as you do, but I place myself in your capable hands.”