Creative fun in
the palm of your hand.
Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1923891-A-Wicked-Dance
by Aero
Rated: E · Sample · Tragedy · #1923891
My dream of someone in a world like ours where the inhabitants are paired by their souls.

Risque’ danced. Her lithe body moved to the sway of the gentle tune. Every bend, every turn done with such patience and grace. In that moment, dancing with no audience, she looked so at peace, so free and calm. Yet she wasn't. Inside her body raged with a thirst she had no means to quench. She used her mind to control it. This woman so frail so small so beautiful so deadly so weak!

The tempo of her song increased. A warrior now replaced the meek, her movements fierce and deadly. This dance grew dangerous yet still the beauty and grace remained. A graceful deadly war. The need for it sickening her already dying world.

The music stopped. Her body did not. She collapsed to the floor. Alone and dying in a world where two equals one and she cannot be made whole. She was there she could feel her. Her other half, her salvation. If she reached with her tattered soul she could feel the warmth she offered, just a tease as it was fleeting. All the lies and people deceiving; she was abandoned unwanted not needed. The heart that she had had long since ceased its beating. On her hands and knees on the cold marbled floor she screams “No more!”

No one came to her screaming, no one dared. She was a fear they all shared. An unbound legend with nothing to lose and no hope to fight for. An empty existence. War pain and suffering she lived it, breathed it. The hope she carried for finding her bind had swindled and died. Every day she grew closer to coming of age. Every day she loses what little hope remains. The days of her sanity is numbered. Too few. Yet still she dances to their wicked tune.

Royalty. They mock her. Born of blood, born of kings, supposed to be treasured supposed to be free! Feared hated loved by none that their god had fated. She reaches for her. Last time she swears. Try to make contact, try to connect. To save herself from a fate far worse than any death. She feels her, a spark her bind, not suffering like her. No dark in her mind. Risque’ was blind. In denial!

“Why does she not try to find me? Why have I been abandoned by the one destined to love me?!” A bind, salvation, relief to a cold heart unbeating.... She brings me no peace. Her bind dances just out of her reach. Teasing her, playing her, enraging her no small feat. Her head touches floor she is hallow empty and unsure. Her mind will break her body undone she will soon lose herself as an unfated one.

She moves. Her body rises. Her song begins anew. She will dance this song until her body no longer follows her will to move. Vengeance and death will be her only tune. Her sword is picked up, her gun is holstered. She swings the blade in her mind she fights thousands on horses. She dances and flows; in her mind she is out numbered.

Conviction she thinks her will unwavered. Her enemies will beg and bleed while she tears them asunder. Her body knows the moves her mind how to guide it. Her cold blue eyes scream death, she won’t hide it. In these marbled halls her dance is empty; beyond these walls her strikes become deadly. She steels herself. Releases all emotion and fears. Lets herself grow distant while her mind becomes free and clear. Focus on war and death, just on the fight that lies ahead. She lets everything else in her world disappear. So when her bind finally finds the strength and calls out. She has no soul left to hear.

© Copyright 2013 Aero (aerolys at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates have been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work.
Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1923891-A-Wicked-Dance