Editing 110212Rubio

Merlin cancelled his spell and Rubio walked away, skirting the walls of the crowded ballroom before heading toward the centre.  Certain very careful listeners noted that Merlin and Rubio’s just-ended conversation was identical to another that was being had across the room. Flora  in particular would chide Merlin later in the evening for his sloppy Spellcasting during one of her formal events. 


Rubio reached the edge of the dance floor and watched the swirling dancers idly. After some initial difficulties with the music, the evening’s dancing was now in full swing, mostly waltzes and odd, more free-style dances of a sort that Rubio was unfamiliar with. In Valentin, he would have happily found a partner amongst the watching crowd and joined in, but in Amber his thoughts remained darkly in his current situation and the conversation just ended.  Merlin’s plan offered a path forward, but it was little more than illusion. Those that would move against them had no reason to accede to Rubio’s wishes, regardless of what proclamations he made.  


“You seem not yourself, my Liege. What furrows that golden brow of yours?” 
Rubio jumped slightly, startled by the sudden appearance and amused voice of Sancha to his right. The baron was wearing one of the tracksuit tuxedos that seemed the fashion at this party and in the same unfortunate shades of golden yellow and burnt orange as many of the party goers. Sole points of individual style were limited to a silver chased black tricorn hat and a short queue of glossy black hair tied with crimson and golden ribbon .  Sancha was in masculine form, for the most part, wearing striped track pants rather than the skirt favoured by the women at the party and sporting the thin moustache that had been his constant companion for the last several days. A discerning viewer might have detected femininity in the shape of the face and to a lesser extent in the slightly rounded suppleness of the body, but not so much as would seem out of fashion for a young nobleman at a formal ball. 


Rubio’s mood lightened at the sound and sight of his compatriot, but only slightly.  For all that Rubio desired the closeness of a trusted friend, in the end Sancha was a part of the problem, rather than a relief from it.
He fixed his green eyes on Sancha’s stormy grey. “My Count,” he replied adopting for the moment the same level of formality as Sancha. “How ever did you arrange entrance to the party?”


Sancha smirked, petting his moustache. “I considered it a tactical exercise, my Liege. Caine’s entourage was apparently missing a few members this evening and his captains have a fondness for  . .  . a certain type.”


Rubio harrumphed, not wanting to consider what “type” that was or what had happened to the missing members of the entourage. He crossed his arms and turned from the baron, brows furrowed. The waltz had ended and the bandmaster, a rotund dark-skinned fellow with a bowler hat and strange accent announced that the next dance would be a minuet, as soon as they figured out how to play one.

  
Sancha fixed Rubio with an appraising look before placing a light hand on his shoulder. “Idleness ill suits you, my Liege. You always think better while acting. Shall we dance? Whatever clouds your mind at rest will become clear when you moving”. 


Rubio stepped back, aghast, and glared at Sancha, “How can we dance as you are, and wearing that  . . . that tribute to Calypso’s hubris . . . with pants.”


Sancha winked. “Ah, Always so forthright, my Liege. Who said I was wearing this?”  He leaned in close to whisper. “Besides, I know you prefer the feel of cotton and silk to whatever this track suit is made of.” 


At that statement, the Baron’s body appeared to melt, losing colour until it was little more than a clear, gelid, vaguely human mass. It stayed this way for but a moment, before reforming and solidifying. Sancha’s head, hair, hat and voice had remained nearly unchanged throughout.  Rubio tried to focus on that. She--for there could be no doubt of her sex, was wearing a ball gown of rich green, accented with white.  Her scent had also changed, from cedar musk to damask rose  entwined with cinnamon.   The only remaining traces of masculinity might be discerned in the square set of the shoulders and the moustache, though that too was faded, more feminine somehow. She grabbed Rubio’s hand, “There, I do not think that anyone should be scandalized by our dancing now”


Watching the transformation, Rubio’s stomach gave a slow, sick turn. Disturbing enough was the very sight of the transformation, but that dress, and the scent, was disturbingly familiar. He tried not to blanch, or blush. “The Duke’s dance,” he stammered.  “Before my trip to L'Espinada to fight Guillermo and his devil spawned sons. That was you?”


“No, my Liege. But I had heard the effect it had on you, so I copied it.  There were other times, though”.  She curtsied, raising her right now-gloved hand to him and coyly averting her eyes behind a fan in a fashion that seemed entirely contrary to her nature. “Shall we?”
Rubio momentarily surrendered the point and took Sancha’s hand.  The band leader had apparently been unable negotiate the complexities of 3/8 time and opted instead to begin another waltz. 


Once on the dance floor Rubio kept his partner at arm’s reach, like a young man at his first dance lesson, making all of their moves cumbersome. This did not escape Sancha’s notice. “Now what is the problem?” she whispered


“This does not seem right, you and I dancing like this,” Rubio muttered. 


“We’ve danced many times,” she countered. “It never bothered you before.”


“Yes, but manly dances. Jigs and such, not waltzes”


“Well, I don’t like dancing backwards, but there are some things we just put up with.”
Rubio seemed momentarily confused by Sancha’s statement and she used that to change Rubio’s grip so that they were closer, more like a normal couple. As they continued, Rubio did not move them back to their previous distance. 


“And that isn’t what is bothering you,” she continued. “You’re dour and brooding lately. There’s no excitement.”


Rubio gave his friend a hard look. “In the past day we’ve flown into a live volcano, stared down a god of hellfire along with his horde of efreet and defeated an army of flying mushrooms. Is that not enough adventure for you?”


Sancha, looked momentarily distant and pensive. “I am always up for more carnage in a good cause and the mushrooms were a bit bloodless.” She returned wholly to the moment and matched Rubio’s look with her own.  “But that isn’t the question, my Liege. In the past, you always fought with joy, now you fight with resignation. It will lead to defeat.” 


Rubio’s face flushed angrily. “So it is insufficient that I kill, but I must enjoy it as well?” he growled.


Sancha looked down, momentarily chastised. “Nay, my liege.” 


“Before, I was right and fought for the right, always. I defeated enemies, destroyed invaders fought for survival, yours and mine, or so I thought,” he said bitterly. “Now, all is revealed as lies and confusion.”


“It need not be. Certainly not during a waltz, my Liege.” 


“And of this ‘My Liege’ you keep speaking of?”


“Are you not my Liege? Are you not Count and I your Baron?” she smiled “Or perhaps Baroness, at the moment.” 


Rubio bristled, but continued smoothly through the turn.  “I had thought, ages ago, that we were but Sancha and Rubio: boon companions, compatriots, and dearest friends.” 


“And we are not?”


“That was before you revealed . . . what you have revealed.”


For some moments they continued dancing in silence, Rubio fuming. Their moves, while technically impeccable, were performed with a level of strength and snap ill-suited to a crowded dance floor filled with casual dancers. Upon seeing this Flora considered asking the band to change to a tango, but decided to keep the music where it could do less damage.