Dancing with His Majesty

I told you in my last post that I was going to try to bring to light some of the magic moments I wanted to write about but hadn't had time for. This is what this piece is - a piece of magic recaptured.

I am dancing. I waltz along over the grass and asphalt, dressed in far less than my finest but pretending more. I can picture it--the gown I would be wearing if this moment were part of the ball I am imagining. It is pale, pale blue, so pale it is very nearly white. The bodice hugs my form perfectly, and the skirt drapes over my hips and downward as naturally as willow branches draping down from the tree tops. It is light and flows around me with every step. I wear white gloves, and my hair is piled in elegant curls above my head and around my face, held in place by silver pins. I am beautiful and regal and dancing.

Dancing alone.

Suddenly the trees rush, the birds scatter, and I have a suitor. Lord Aeolus, the Wind, has come to dance. I curtsy, but he does not bow. He never bows to anyone. Despite his effrontery, I consent and we begin.

It is a dance without rhythm, the step he chooses, but he leads well and I follow. He pushes me from behind, his powerful hands on my waist. I can feel him lift my arms in his, lifting them so that I look like I am trying to have wings. He turns and moves me, tosses and turns. My curls are flying out of place, but I don't care. I am caught up in the exhilaration of the dance. I can feel his cool, rushing fingers caress my neck and brush the hair from my face. I can feel his embrace surrounding my whole self, chilling me beneath my thin little gown.

He becomes rather forward, and I become rather uncomfortable. I thank him for the dance and proceed by another way. Buildings surround me now, so it is harder for him to come to me. I am disheveled and worn out, but I smile anyway. It was such a beautiful dance.

I think I am safe at first, but I am wrong. When I have crossed the street and come around a corner, I find myself facing an open field. With nothing left to hinder his progress, my lord flies at me unrestrainedly. I am buffeted and beaten from all sides in his assault, but I stand my ground. I am pushed and pulled from different sides, my curls have fallen out altogether, and my gown is whipping around my knees. But I keep walking. He can do what he will, but I am going home.

Instead of becoming angrier, the Wind dies down to gentility again. He brushes about me apologetically, and I cannot help but forgive. For the rest of the walk home we dance. He knows waltz time, it seems, and is very good at lifts. I leap and jump into his arms and feel their force around me. He is gentler now, and the dance is pleasant. I know I have nothing to fear.

When I arrive home and must part from my lord, I pause and curtsy once more. He rushes forward and tosses my hair around to make me laugh, then rushes away. I retreat indoors, where he cannot follow--but my heart still rushes from the thrill of dancing with the Wind.