#vitruvious

Years later, and it's the balls that that they choose to remember. It's the dances, and the statues, it's the way dresses swirled and cloth sparkled in a light only one of their own could make, it's the way no one but them - no one but them could come, to these private parties, to these get togethers.

The way light became music and musicians spun pure light into lofty notes, the way Arisa's guitar gleamed bright, sparkling with power, every string glowing with thunder as she strummed power cords with lightning itself. The way the night was lit up as if by a second dawn. Laughter and dancing and friends, the casual displays of power, great and small, performances by those all too eager to show off and reunions for those separated by wandering, brought back for the joy of it.

No one knew that it would be the last, then. No one had even conceived back then, that that ball, that most ordinary of balls - nevermind the laughter and the joy, the music, the beauty of it, it was /normal/ then - would be the last they'd have.

But it's been years since then. Years since there was safety enough for a party so large, so loud, so /free/. Years since they had been together in such a way and it would be years more - many years more, if they spirits were kind - before they would see so many of them again.

Others choose to remember the fight, the enduring. Chose to remember that Master Builders had fought for freedom all along and could do so now, that they had fought and won and could do it again.

For them, it brings strength. Others solidarity and still others hope, but Vitruvius...

Vitruvius remembers a night drenched in light and music and excitement, love and joy a tangible sensation in the air, and it's that thought that keeps them moving.