Scian-omprór, Nachangalte
“I think some humans remember the Fae better than you realize.” Maelduin had apparently forgotten all about the glass of wine in his hand, and was leaning forward, studying the screen intently. “Your Shakespeare understood a’gár’doltas nearly as well as a Fae Royal.”
“Remind me what that means again?” Terry was glad Maelduin seemed to be enjoying the DVD of his Romeo and Juliet, though it would have been even better if the Fae were appreciating how he, Terry, had looked in the white tights that supposedly put ten pounds on any dancer’s thighs.
Maelduin glanced back at Terry, and something in his eyes suggested there might be a fair amount of appreciating going on after all. “It doesn’t translate very well, I’m afraid. It has murder in it, but also laughter. But nothing of humor.”
“I think I get it.” The on-screen him was being stalked by Tybalt, Juliet’s older brother, and in this particular performance the role had been danced by a guest artist who had come to the company with a reputation as a bully. A well-deserved reputation.
“And you dance beautifully.” The dimple in Maelduin’s chin deepened, a sign he was deep in thought. “Do you think I could learn to do that?”
Well, didn’t that just open Terry’s eyes wide. “Dance? You mean... dance? Ballet?”
“Yes.” Maelduin touched his forehead to Terry’s. “It seems... not unlike what I already know. Only more beautiful.”
“It doesn’t always involve swords.” Terry felt ever so slightly drunk, the way he usually did when Maelduin’s attention was focused on him like this. Which meant he probably wasn’t making a lot of sense, the way he usually didn’t under present circumstances.
Maelduin grinned. “I’ve seen enough of you in a tutu to have figured that out.”
“I think you could be an amazing dancer. With the right teacher.”
“That, I will have.” Warm soft lips nuzzled Terry’s throat, and Terry was sure he could feel a smile. “You, of course.”
Terry blinked, his brain doing a great impression of Bambi on the ice. “You want me to teach you?”
Maelduin looked up, his blue topaz eyes exuding confusion. “Why not?”
“What could I possibly have to teach you? I’ve seen you dance the blades.” Terry’s chest ached, breathless with the memory; even knowing his lover had been fighting for his life, the art of the scian-damhsa had been poetry in the form of a Fae.
“But I want to learn your art. Your beauty.” Maelduin’s jaw set, in a way Terry already recognized, a window onto boss-level stubbornness. “And I want to learn from one who loves the art, and who loves me.”
“I’m not...”
Wait. Wait just a goddamned minute.
Couldn’t he, for once, try to see himself as Maelduin saw him?
Beautiful in my own right. Terry’s eyes stung. Loved for who I am.
He’d learned a lot about Fae in a very short time, since the Pattern had brought him and Maelduin together; his scair-anam loved to talk almost as much as he loved to turn Terry’s world upside down and inside out. As currently relevant, Terry had learned how Fae coveted beauty. Coveted as in would do absolutely anything to possess, and make a dragon breathing fire from on top of its hoard look like a rank amateur when it came to keeping it.
And a Fae thought his dancing was beautiful.
A Fae thought he was beautiful.
Terry let out a long, slow breath. “Sure. I’ll teach you.”
It was easy to answer Maelduin’s radiant smile with one of his own, and to go boneless in his SoulShare’s embrace. On the screen in front of him, his Romeo was bidding Juliet a passionate farewell, but Terry wasn’t really seeing the doomed lovers; he saw, instead, a mirrored studio, and himself being held, lifted, spun, by the partner of his dreams. Himself was half hard, too, but that just made the fantasy more fun.
“Are you still here?” The breath of Maelduin’s chuckle tickled his cheek.
“Sort of.” Terry grinned. “I’m just realizing I’m going to have a hard time concentrating on ballet long enough to teach you anything.”
“You don’t say.” Maelduin’s hand ‘accidentally’ drifted over Terry’s groin.
“Tease.” Terry managed to uncross his eyes. “How did you ever manage to find a sword instructor who could keep his hands off you long enough to teach you to dance the blades?”
“I didn’t, at least not always.” Maelduin drew Terry closer. “But most of my teachers were... uninterested... in testing the curse of House Guaire.”
Oh, shit. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
A quick kiss cut off Terry’s apology. “I know. And none of my teachers ever lasted long, in any event. I learned what they had to teach, and then I was done with them.”
“Then how did you get so goddamned good at what you do? A thousand teachers?”
Maelduin snorted. At least, that’s what Terry thought the sound was. “I was born a better scian-damhsa than most of the teachers in the Realm. The Guaire heritage is good for more than curses.”
“That I can believe, having seen Tiernan in action.”
“Exactly so.” Maelduin laced his fingers through Terry’s; that hand had felt amazing in his lap, but he liked it this way, too. “So when I was through with teachers, I went to a mage, and had a comhrac-scátha created.”
Terry recognized the word. “That purple crystal you keep in the nightstand drawer?”
“Yes.” Maelduin’s thumb circled Terry’s palm, doing a damned fine job of distracting all by itself. “It has a special channeling embedded in it, one that calls forth a mirror image of the one holding it, as long as the comhrac-scátha touches bare skin. It was my opponent, my trainer, my last teacher.”
Terry’s heart raced. “Does that mean if you take that stone out of the nightstand bare-handed, there are going to be two of you?”
Jesus, he loved Maelduin’s belly-laugh. “For your sake, lover, I could wish it so.”
He could feel himself reddening. “There’s a reason I don’t play poker.”
More laughter, and a gentle kiss on his temple. “Before I came through the Pattern, I killed my mirror. One last test of my skill. If you want him back, I will have to have a new channeling put into the comhrac-scátha.” A silver-blue gleam danced in Maelduin’s eyes. “I might be able to persuade Conall, at that.”
“I’m not sure I’d survive that.” Terry bit his lip, thinking. Or trying not to. “But it might be worth a try. Someday.”
“Count on it.”