A place where golden water flows down your throat, rich music speaks to your soul, and your eyes feast on the most exquisite enchantment you will ever behold…
Indeed.
Golden water in hand.
The fusion of flute and soft drums created a beautiful symphony that seemed to truly speak to his soul.
And her…
He had never seen her as he did that night.
After dragging him there, she had disappeared for a while. When she reappeared, she was not the woman he was used to seeing.
A thin veil covered half her face, giving her black-lined eyes a mysterious look. Her ears were adorned with small, beautiful rings that seemed to shimmer in sync with her eyes.
Her hair, which once fell beneath her hips, now stopped at her waist, curled into perfection.
Every twist and turn she made was accentuated by the beads she wore around her bare waist.
Her wrists held more beads than usual, yet it did not hinder her arms from moving smoothly, like the wings of a dove gliding through the air.
Gracefully, she moved, playing the tambourine to the rhythm of the other instruments.
Barefoot, as he had come to know she loved to be, her delicate ankles chimed with bells.
The slit in her skirt allowed a glimpse of long, slender legs that carried her across the stage.
Indeed,
she was exquisite.
Those eyes…
They stared at him.
And beneath the thin veil, he could see a taunting smirk form each time their eyes met.
He had seen many dancers before, never had his gaze been as unwavering as it was now.
He watched everything.
Every step she took, every twirl she made, every twist of her body… Even the soft, heavy rise and fall of her breasts—the glistening sweat upon her skin, trailing from her neck down to the center of her chest, slipping past her short blouse and down the length of her waist, until it was lost in the band of her skirt.
He saw it all.
But he was not the only one. Young men cheered and chanted her name, whistling and clapping, calling her the finest dancer in all the land.
As their eyes met yet again, Zuri gulped down his ale.
It did not burn.
He had hoped it would burn away the unfamiliar feeling in his chest, but it did not. Instead, it was mild and soothing, as though it meant to let that feeling sink deeper into him.
He wished he had liquor instead.
The harshest and most expensive kind.
Perhaps that would be enough to burn away the strange sensation.
There were no words to explain it…
How could he possibly explain the feeling of wanting to gouge out the eyes of the men around him, watching her as he was.
How could he explain the mad urge to burn the entire place down, so she might dance only in the woods by the lake—and not upon stage.
How could he explain that he wished he had his sword by his side, so he could tear open any mouth that spoke her name again?
How?
What was this beastly feeling inside him?
It was something raw.
Untamed.
Something that made him want to be Zuriel Hezron, the Hound of Zebulon—and not merely Zuri, the common gardener.
"Must be the ale," he muttered to himself, even though he was more sober than any man in the tavern that night. "Definitely the ale." He nodded as her dance came to a close, and the entire place erupted in applause.
As she was about to leave the stage, her gaze found him, and he lifted his mug to her. She grinned and ran off.
He sipped his ale and breathed. "Aye… most assuredly the ale."
***
Save for the black liner beneath her eyes and upon her lids, and her hair still curled, she was back to being the Damaris he knew.
As they walked back home in silence, Zuri rested easy, thinking to himself that Wisteria ale was far more potent than it tasted. It had brought a momentary madness upon him.
Come morning, he would ask the brewers what they had put into their ale.
But that aside…
His gaze settled on the woman walking ahead of him. There was a soft bounce to her steps, her curled hair moving in time with it. Her hands swung her sandals back and forth with a playful, rhythmic ease.
Soon, she began humming a tune.
It was the very same one she had danced to that night.
For someone who had not had a moment of rest since the break of dawn, she was in quite a good mood.
"The stars are out tonight," she said, breaking the quiet.
"Hmm." He nodded.
"The moon will be full in a few days," she noted.
He looked up at the sky and saw the nearly full moon. "Hmm," he murmured again.
"I have not danced in front of an audience in a long time…" she confessed, a soft chuckle lingering upon her lips. "Tonight felt nice."
"Hm."
She paused. He halted.
She turned, her hair gently twirling with her, and he could tell at once by the look on her face that a complaint was coming. The thought almost made him laugh.
"You have gone silent again," she said with a frown.
How had he come to know her so well?
He let out a sigh; the scent of ale he had drunk lingered upon his breath. "What would you have me say, Damaris?" he asked.
He saw her frown deepen.
"That I—" She bit her bottom lip, holding back the words that threatened to flow out.
"Nothing." Her eyes dropped. "You need not say anything." She lifted her eyes again, and the frown was gone; replaced by a weary smile. Almost as though the stress of the day had at last caught up to her.
She turned and continued walking, but this time…
The bounce had left her steps.
And her playful hands no longer swung at her sides.
She was angry.
No.
An angry Damaris would yell and throw things…
She was—
On impulse, his hand reached for her and caught her wrist. He spun her around and he saw it…
Disappointment.
Sadness.
And something perilously close to anguish.
For a moment, he simply stared into her eyes, which were close to tears.
Because of how manly she carried herself, he sometimes forgot that she too was but a woman.
A woman, fragile and tender-hearted. Though she would die before she ever agreed that Damaris was anything fragile.
Like a moth entranced by the beauty of a flame, he took a step closer, and his hand reached for her face. She backed away, but he touched her anyway.
His hand, cold and rough, cupped her cheek, feeling the tender skin beneath his touch.
"Speak to me, Damaris," he breathed into the night, his ale-filled breath causing her nose to scrunch upward, yet she remained and listened.
"Tell me what you want from me." Gently, he brushed a few strands of her hair behind her ear. "If you do not tell me, I will not know it. Just as you once told me to acknowledge you—and I did. Tell me what you wish to hear from me. Or better yet, what you would have me do."
"Do not languish in silence over it. Tell me."
A letter tucked away, a little ale, and unspoken emotions was all it took to shatter the peaceful nights that Wisteria had always known.