My piece of an AMAZING collab @synnthamonsugar, @endivinity and I put together for @d2artevents Crimson Days event. This was such a fun thing to work on with you guys, and I’m extremely proud of us!!
Read on Ao3 // Full piece
Light filters through the massive rosette window on the far wall of the ballroom as thin, shimmering beams. It dances on moth wings and Wizards’ crystal pendants and rows of glasses carried on trays by Thrall waiters, their claws trimmed and chitin polished to shining. The walls and floor are polished too, almost mirror-like; the chamber reflects in them in an uncanny way, diffused and a little warped, the figures moving across them deformed and blurry at the edges but not entirely passing as shadows either.
And there are dozens of them, Knights and Wizards and even a few Acolytes in wormsilk cloaks and woven hoods. The Witch Queen hasn’t been known to hold back when it comes to theatrics, so the party is lavish, all flowers and garlands and hovering lanterns with shimmering moths fluttering inside. There is music as well—sounding surprisingly little like the tortured screams of the dying, played on strange instruments Eris has only read about in the World’s Grave but never seen before.
And there is dancing.
Through all her years of studying the Hive, Eris wouldn’t have thought they danced. Maybe it would have occurred to her earlier if she'd ever discussed it with Toland; he's always seen them as both more and less than she has, not only mindless beasts and not only gods. He would've said, of course they dance, they're a complex, highly advanced society, the kind that had built palaces and dreadnaughts before the Earth was even created. They have music and art and insanely complicated biotechnological mechanisms, philosophy and cuisine—why wouldn't they dance?
Toland is, at the moment, spinning away from her in a flowing gesture, his fan rising like a shield when she chases him with her sword. He has always been good at this, Eris thinks fleetingly—ever since those scarce and liminal nights a lifetime ago, when he would dance with Eriana in the yellow lamplight of her living room to whatever it was the radio played at 3 am. There is a sense of rhythm all Sunsingers have, perhaps, a certain attunement to the melody of the universe, and for all that Toland forfeited for Ascendance, he’s never lost that instinct.
He looks ridiculous, frankly, in his half-Warlock, half-Hive attire, the charms that tinkle louder than the music and sleeves catching on the buckles of her coat. He also looks gorgeous. The fabric flows and shimmers as he moves, and in a certain light, in the split-second glances between turns, Eris can almost see his true form underneath, the shivering spark of Ascendance wrestling free from her grasp as he sharply pulls away.
When the dance ends, they are both panting and bright-eyed, the rush of blood and adrenaline humming in Eris’ ears. It is not unlike after a fight, she figures; aptly put, for a Hive party.
She catches Toland glancing back at the cluster of Wizards over by the buffet, their claws wrapped around wine glasses and horns adorned with pendants glinting in the light. They have been staring at them since he dragged Eris onto the dance floor, and though she can’t quite interpret their expressions from so far away, the spark in their eyes is unmistakeable. She gives Toland a Look.
“Do try to return with a correct number of limbs,” she says mock-sternly. Toland scoffs, but his hands snake across her back and she is pulled into an embrace, long fingers knitting through her hair. She revels in the kiss, spiced up by the awareness that a good half of the room is looking at them.
As he scurries away, robes fluttering behind him, Eris gestures at a Thrall precariously balancing a tray of snacks in one hand. She has grown used to the Hive's questionable taste in sweet, mushy things, though the variance in what the Lucent Court's cooks have presented for tonight is truly astonishing. Chewing on a clam, she leans against a pillar and watches the dancers.
“I see you are enjoying the party.” She decidedly does not jump in startlement at the sudden presence behind her, head turning to face the hostess of the show in a much calm and stately manner. “My Court is certainly enjoying watching you, anyhow.”
“I’ve noticed.” She doesn’t take the wine glass Savathûn offers her.
“That was a good display of dancing right there,” the Witch nods appraisingly, a gesture so very un-Hive she must have picked it up during her time in the Last City, “though it lacked a kind of flourish. It grieves me to no end that you’ll never experience the delights of the Eversion Day balls on the Dreadnaught. Those waltzes were what everyone all across the broods would aspire to.”
Eris folds her arms across the chest. “I haven’t seen you on the dance floor tonight yet.”
Savathûn puts one hand over her heart and gasps theatrically, “I thought you’d never ask!”
In a swirl of fabric and light, suddenly there is a weight at the small of Eris’ back, and clawed fingers wrapped around her own lead her towards the middle of the chamber. The sea of dancers parts before them, heads turning and glowing eyes blinking curiously.
There is no use resisting, but she tries anyway. “This is not—”
“Oh, don’t break my heart, honey.” Savathûn’s voice is a silky murmur. Eris cannot quite tell if it's just illusion or if the Witch is using some kind of magic to fool with her mind a little, but the moment she is pulled into a closed position the atmosphere shifts near-imperceptibly, like a planet's orbit knocked askew by an inch. There is the sweet, heady scent of the throne world flowers, lingering around Savathûn like perfume. It makes Eris lightheaded. She finds her gaze fixed on the Witch’s brilliant eyes as if the star-dappled collar were a gravity well, drawing her in inescapably.
The waltz is slow and languid, so unlike the mad duel-dancing of the Hive. The edges between her and Savathûn seem to blur, the whole world shrinking just to the two of them, and some part of Eris’ mind thinks that this is mad too, the way she is letting herself be swept across the room like a ship in the arms of a gentle wave. Their faces inches apart, Eris curses herself for how furiously her heart is beating.
Savathûn reaches out and caresses her jaw with a single claw, smiling with her eyes. The music dies, but Eris isn’t aware of that, she isn’t even quite aware of where she is—and then someone bumps into her and she jumps, startled, head swivelling to the side instinctively. When she turns back, the Witch is gone.
Eris takes a sharp breath. She is standing in the middle of the dance floor, the crowds of Hive swirling around her, and there is a strange sensation on the side of her neck, like a feather-brush or a droplet of water trailing down.
When she touches it to check, her finger comes stained with her own blood, red like the train of flowers Savathûn leaves in her wake.
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