#praxys

It was not often that Bahari found her confidence shaken. That was just who she was-- the one who is unfaltering, nothing could put her down. But... his words for a moment made her feel a feeling she hadn't felt in many, many years. Insecurity.

"If I'm honest, this was not something I ever thought would be in the cards for me. But, sometimes when you know," he looked to her with a smile, "you know."

And for a moment, she was painfully aware of her position; his arm wrapped aroud hers, standing hip to hip. Those countless nights at the Jewel flash through her mind--his personal dinner date at his table, in perfect view of the rest of the establishment. Her eyes looked towards the crowd of nobles and aristocrats and in her mind something clicked.

His words should have made her estatic but instead they just made her cold.

"All you ever are and ever will be is a trophy to be looked at, but never heard." Her mother's words echoed vitrole in her head.

She suddenly wondered if that's all this really was? For who better to parade upon your arm or invite to your personal table than a famed muscian and adventurer? One of the ones who saved the Queen? What better way to appease yourself to the masses than with one of their own? She felt the doubt creep into her mind like a growing mold.

She registred Queen Oslyn opening up about her prediciment: she was to be wed whether she wanted to or not.

"I can't just marry for love, not when I have the city to consider."

Bahari's grip tightened on Praxys' arm and she felt him respond in kind. She looked to him for a moment--a look of acknowledgment and worry--and ever so slightly the doubt receded. He knew of her past--the key points of it anyway. If all she was, was a trophy... then he wouldn't express such concern and solidarity to her?

Would he?

- - -

The night continued on and she tried to not to let her doubt consume her more. She brushed her hair aside and let the mask settle into place.

Questions of automony, friendship, vultures and suddenly--

"--My position just wouldn't allow it. Especially not at events like this, where everyone’s looking at who everyone's with." The unspoken 'There are eyes on us' gripped Bahari by the throat.

"It's doubled edged sword, being seen positively or not. If I wasn't the attention whore I am, I'd much rather be seen with indifference." She passes it off as joke. Those eyes on her from every angle have never felt so perverse. She reveled in being seen, but not like this. On the stage she was in control of how and why people percieved her. She was in control of how they hear her. But here? Not for the first time that night she felt like an accessory.

Mentions of a performance for the queen have her bounding away from her partner before he can even open his mouth to respond.

- - -

Bahari felt her self dancing between pure affection and cold insecurity.

Their performance, as usual, was amazing. Up until her footing faltered and she found herself flying from the stage and out into the crowd. Familiar arms caught her with ease and whispered worried questions in her ear.

"Are you alright? You're not hurt?"

"Physically I'm peachy... it's my ego that's shattered." She can't keep the embarrassment and frustration from her voice at such a rookie mistake. "I've made an utter fool of myself." She feels all of those eyes. She wasn't perfect and they know-- he knows--

"Don't be ridiculous. You all are amazing-- you're amazing."

She looks to him with wide eyes before shooting a glance back to Dove, watching her try to clean up her mess as best she could. Her friend pivoted the focus to her, a show of 'this was all a part of the performance'. Bahari feels grateful to her. She looked to him again for a brief moment, trying to understand her waring emotions--then decides that she doesn't have the time for that and puts a pin in it. She instead leant up, kissed his cheek and said, "toss me."

And he does.

And, as if nothing had happened, the concert resumes and she felt her grip on the room return to her.

All eyes are on her, because she has crafted it that way. Not as a trophy, but as a spectacle of her creation.

- - -

With the impromptu concert compelete she feels she can finally steal away for a moment. She sent her partner a look at that says, 'Talk to me?'

He easily deciphered the look and followed after her. Eyes stick to her back the whole way until she found some secluded balcony. The air is crisp and she inhaled deeply, letting it soothe her frazzled nerves. Praxys wore a look that whispered curiosity and affection as he met her out in the evening air.

Before he can open her mouth she's already asking her question.

"Earlier you said to the Queen, 'you know when you know'," about us "did you mean that?" She wrung her paws together, allowing herself to be vulnerable, "do you... do you know?"

She almost didn't ask. She wasn't ready for her fears to be confirmed--that all it ever was, was an image to keep. That all she ever was, was a trophy to show off.

Bahari had told him that she was all in. That she was here for it all, good and bad. But... if it was a mere game to him then... she promised herself she wouldn't let herself be someone's toy ever again.

His response surprised her. From his jacket, he pulled a small hand harp. He spoke of how he had been reminded of how near and dear music was to him--because of her. How he had wanted to have her play on his enchanted harp so that he could always listen to her music even when she wasn't near. But that he feared the conotations of such a request, fearing she'd think he'd only want her for her music, and not for her.

Bahari was uncharacteristically speechless as she gazed at the instrument. Without much thought, she reached out for it and plucked gently at the strings, the tune intimately familiar to her but unknown to the world.

When she finished she placed the harp in his hands and said in a shaky whisper, "now that you have your song, I hope you don't forget the one who played it."

He tucked the harp into his coat with surprising speed before he took her hands softly, but firmly, into his. "The harp is a mere echo of what I have in front of me right now." The dull hum of the party competes with the thumping of Bahari's heart. "My wish is that we can enjoy this evening together, until the sun's risen and much longer--if you’ll have me." Maybe it wasn't just her heart she was hearing.

She felt the doubt melt away, leaving her head and heart fuzzy and warm. She allowed herself a smile as she squeezed his hands.

She wasn't a trophy. Not to him or to anyone else. She was just... Bahari. And that thought filled her with relief.

Out of view of prying eyes, she grabbed his frilly neck tie and pulled him down for a kiss.

A snippet from the date.

"C'mere a moment," she said suddenly during a lull in their conversation. She flicked a paw, beckoning the half elf closer. He gave her a curious, quizical look before reluctanly leaning closer.

She gave the man a look of assessment for a moment before unraveling the ribbon from her throat. "You've got such lovely hair, but you let it run rampant." She scootched her chair closer-- not caring in the least that she was in a fine dining establishment--and asked, "may I?"

Praxys began to open his mouth to respond but Bahari paid him no heed and continued on anyway. "Ah, so that was more of a formality than a question." He chuckled with a single brow raised and relinquished control to the bard.

"I'm the fashion forward one here, so hush." She chided him playfully. She put the edge of the ribbon in her teeth before running her paws through Praxys' silky blond locks. A soft silence encased them as she worked on his hair. She pulled the sky blue ribbon from her teeth and thread it delicately into his hair with practiced ease.

What must have only been a mere minute, felt like hours as Bahari finally tied the ribbon into a sweet bow. Its simple--half up, half down--but Bahari can already see a difference. She sat back on her haunches and assessed her work--a mere excuse to stare without question. Once she's had her fill she nods.

"There." She says, pleased. "Much better. I feel I can actually make eye contact with you--now that all that hair isn't in the way."

Praxys reached a hand to touch the ribbon and looked back to Bahari curiously. She uncharacteristically feels herself heat under his perceptive gaze. She rests her chin on her paws in an effort to distract from warmth in her chest and tells him, "now you better take care of that ribbon. Its quite important to me." She suddenly feels exposed--she hopes a careful smile and cheeky eyes can mask it.

"Well," he starts slowly, "I can't in good conscience deny a lady such a request." He leant back in his chair as a server came by and refilled their wine. Bahari refuses to acknowledge who's wine they were drinking. "I'll be sure to return it to you b--"

"No, hold onto it."

He tilted his head.

Bahari grasps her glass and brought it to her lips with a coy smile. "You can return it to me after our next date."

His blue eyes widen ever so slightly. A small smirk graces his face before he too reached for his own glass.

"Very well."

- - -

Bahari laid splayed out on her bed, staring up at the ceiling with blank eyes. She rubbed the exhaustion from her eyes with her paws. Sighing deeply, she tilted her head to the side. Her lyre sat pristinely on her side table, rose gold wood glittering in the evening setting sun. Try as she might, thoughts of home never seemed to leave her. Her instrument of choice never ceased to serve as a reminder. A reminder of her mothers— their control, unyielding tradition and a life mentally behind bars.

They had it all thought out for her down to the minute.

No deviation, no hiccups.

Tradition was everything— Image was everything. What was a life of worth if not in the name? Name, name, name. That’s all that mattered. Bahari was nothing more than a trophy to keep the family tree firmly planted. Her thoughts didn’t matter.

She would be seen, not heard.

But…

The music made her heard. When she played she knew all eyes and ears were on her. When she played she _meant_ something. When she played she was more than just the daughter of Nefri Nettle and Panya Pine, more than just the betrothed trophy to Nolan Winterseed, more than just the perfect daughter. Her music made a difference.

Her life was HER’S now. She rolled off her bed and grasped her lyre firmly. She thought of the parade— playing the fusion music with Pepper. She had voluntarily taken on the traditional music—something she never thought she’d do again—and she enjoyed it. She had played and lived. And she danced! The steps had come so easy to her, muscle memory kicking in.

“It’s a pleasant surprise,” he had remarked to her, pleased and impressed, ”not many know these old dances, or would even like to keep the tradition alive.”

And what she replied, she believed.

”I don’t want them to die.” She felt a fire begin to spark in her chest as they stepped in perfect harmony. ”They’re the heart of our cultures— I would do anything to keep them alive.”

She strummed the opening notes to a far forgotten Cinnverai song and danced alone in her room.

She hated the control her mothers held over her life. She hated how tradition hovered over her like some dark, foreboding cloud. She hated living trapped in that senseless fog.