Dancing With a Winged Ghost - The Four Moon Cycles Part One

Rhyvahr was not going to show up to a ball without looking fabulous.

Right now, the only clothing that hung from his body was a thin, silky nightgown. It was long, the end dragged along the floor when he paced around his room.

Through his window, he could see the hustle and bustle of the Jaharan night market. It was lit up by fluorescent lights, filled with people in fancy, over-the-top attire.

At least that was what all the Laslans would say. Them with their plain, tasteless clothes and their value for modesty. At least Jaharans knew how to have fun.

And Rhyvahr was determined to do just that.

The ball was hours away, and he had spent the entire morning in his walk-in wardrobe trying to pick out something to wear. Then he resorted to sitting in front of his vanity, combing through all his rings, necklaces and hair accessories.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looked awful, the thought of anyone seeing him like this was something out of his nightmares. It was all right though. It was all going to be all right. He would look like his usual fabulous self in no time.

Skin too pale? A sweeping of blush along the cheekbones would do.

Bloodshot eyes? Line them with gold eyeliner. Then dust yellow shadow at both corners of your eyelids, and make the orange in the middle bold and bright. Don’t forget the eyelashes – they have to be long and volumized.

Lips cracked and colourless? Apply some rouge for goodness sake. Let’s go with red to match your fiery eyes. Everyone would want a taste of those lips.

There, that is what we are talking about.

Rhyvahr glanced at his finished look in the mirror and smiled. His eyes didn’t sparkle when he did that, but no one would see amidst the glittery eyeshadow.

He stood and undid his nightgown, tossing it onto his bed. He gulped when the light of the mirror shone harshly onto his naked body. He registered his heart thumping and the uncomfortable hotness that crept all over his skin.

It was going to be all right. He could make it through the night without it.

His hand reached at the spot between his shoulder-blades. Rhyvahr could never get used to feeling the rugged ends protruding from his back.

The only remaining part of his wings.

He shuddered when the pain echoed through his body. Breathe through it. Breathe through it. It will pass.

Now, it was time to get dressed.

Rhyvahr slipped on the white underclothing and then his pants – black with sparkling embroidering. Then laced up his boots with careful fingers.

Jaharan clothing was famous for its numerous layers. And the outmost layer had to be magnificent. And Rhyvahr’s was just that.

Long, billowing sleeves traced all over with silver thread to accompany the artwork of golden flowers stitched onto the fabric. The layers all folded over each other in a V-shape below his collarbone, and the pointed shoulders hid the slump in his posture.

Rhyvahr scooped up his long, dark hair and spun it into a top-knot, securing it in place with a clip. It was made of gold with a large ruby in the middle. Then he slid his rings on one by one until his fingers sparkled with jewels no matter what angle he held his hand.

His Father didn’t know he was going, and that suited Rhyvahr because he didn’t need to tell his Father anything. He was an adult who could make his own decisions about what he wanted.

Rhyvahr was more than ready. He was going to have fun.

Everything was going to be normal. Just the way they used to be.

Rhyvahr entered the ballroom in all his glory. Fashionably late, of course. How else was he supposed to attract stares when he finally decided to grace the lovely people with his presence? He delighted in the way the people whispered about him, stilling their dancing for a millisecond to gaze upon his magnificence.

The music came to a halt, partners bowed and curtseyed to each other.

“May I have this next dance?” A woman asked, offering her lacey-gloved hand. She was in a stunning red dress made of shiny satin. Hair sleek and braided down her back. Her large brown eyes were boldened by dark liner and smoky eyelids.

“Of course,” Rhyvahr replied, taking her hand. “I would never refuse a woman as beautiful as yourself.” She gave him a smile, revealing dimples in both cheeks.

“Aikirra,” she said. Typical Jaharan name. 

“Rhyvahr.” Not typical Jaharan name. It was Tel-hatian, the land of numerous forests where the dark faeries resided.

“I have heard of you,” Aikirra said as they walked towards the dance floor. “I do not know where, but I have.” Her voice was light and airy.

Rhyvahr placed a hand on her shoulder when the music started once more. “My name is a common one.”

“But not in Jahara,” Aikirra said. Her lips moved, clearly to say something, but turned up into a smile once more. “Let us not worry about that.” She curtseyed.

Aikirra was a wonderful dancer, their steps fell right in with each other. With a hand on her waist, they glided across the floor as if flying through air.

Flying.

Rhyvahr was familiar with the sensation. How freeing it was to sail through the sky, wings catching the breeze.

His heart throbbed, pain crept through his back once more.

“Are you all right?” Aikirra asked, stopping mid-step.

Rhyvahr’s jaw tightened. “I am perfectly fine,” he replied.

He led Aikirra back towards the centre.

He danced through the heartache. Even though each step sent pain running down his spine, increasingly intense with each movement.

He danced through it.

He held onto Aikirra’s hand as she spun out and executed a perfect twirl back towards him. He caught her on the final beat of the music.

Rhyvahr bowed, placing a kiss on her fingers. He retrieved two glasses from a servant walking past. “Might I interest you in a drink?”

Aikirra tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “That sounds delightful,” she replied. They left the dance floor, the ballroom filling with chatter at the interval. She sipped from her glass. “So, where are you from?”

“Are my origins unclear to you?” Rhyvahr asked. Even beneath all the Jaharan clothing and make-up, it was obvious from his dark hair and complexion that he wasn’t from Jahara.

“I am just making conversation,” Aikirra said. “I am from Hestina Los.” That fact was also clear from her accent, but Rhyvahr didn’t make a comment about it.

“That is quite far from Alheria,” Rhyvahr said.

“I am travelling with my brother,” Aikirra said. She glanced through the crowd. “Let me introduce you to him.”

Rhyvahr didn’t have the energy to object, one dance had already made him weary. However, his senses sharpened when he saw Aikirra’s brother.

White-blond hair, grey eyes the colour of storm clouds right after a rain, scar along his cheek pulling one corner of his mouth slightly upwards. Rhyvahr knew those features all too well.

“This is my brother, Fenndon,” Aikirra said, oblivious to the emotions crackling between their gaze.

“I-I am Rhyvahr,” he said. Rhyvahr never stumbled over his words. But he did around Fenndon. He always had. With his smooth and elegant features, how could Rhyvahr not?

However, the hurt in Fenndon’s eyes were unmistakable. Fenndon made a gesture with his hands, gaze darting away from Rhyvahr.

“He says nice to meet you,” Aikirra translated. Although Rhyvahr didn’t need the translation, Fenndon had taught him sign language years ago, and Rhyvahr never forgot.

“It is nice to meet you too,” Rhyvahr said, swallowing back whatever he wanted to say.

He danced a few more songs with Aikirra, his eyes always drifting back to where Fenndon stood against the wall. He remembered Fenndon telling him that he could hear the undercurrent of the music, when it changed, so Rhyvahr used to play him songs on the harp and he listened.

When the pain came again, he stumbled and almost didn’t catch Aikirra when she came twirling back to him. Rhyvahr winced. He just needed to go back to his room for his painkillers. He didn’t use it because it made him high and messed up his footing.

But he would be lying if he said he didn’t need it at least once every few hours.

“Rhyvahr?” Aikirra was looking up at him with worry. He had grown to hate that look. That was the only way his Father looked at him anymore.

He was fine.

He just needed the painkillers.

“Excuse me for a moment,” Rhyvahr said.

He made his way through the crowd of people, the pain twisting and turning into a scream waiting to be let out. It built in his throat, but he swallowed it because he had learnt how to do that now. No matter how bad the pain, he wasn’t going to scream.

However, he had not trained himself on what to say when he saw Fenndon again. Because he thought he would never see Fenndon again. However, there he was, all alone in the hallway.

The sight of Fenndon made him so incredibly still. What happened between them was years ago. A lifetime ago.

Rhyvahr certainly hadn’t forgotten though.

He couldn’t face Fenndon like this. Not when it felt like knives stabbing between his shoulder-blades, enough to make him bite his lip so hard that it bled. His hands trembled from withdrawal.

So Rhyvahr walked the other way.

He barely managed to close his door before he was tearing at his clothing. His skin was burning despite his fireplace not being lit. He fumbled at the buttons and all the fabric. Then grappled for the tin, prying it open even though a little twist would have done the trick.

He scooped a large chunk of the clear paste, smearing it all over his back. He had stolen it from his Father’s medicine cabinet after his other one ran out.

He was supposed to be weaning off it, but there was not a chance that Rhyvahr was going to let people see how weak he really was without it. It ruled his life, but he didn’t care if that meant the front he put on for other people, to convince them that he was normal would never waver.

He sighed with pleasure when the pain finally went away, replaced by a rush that calmed his rapidly beating heart and cooled the burning sensation. It felt so good.

Rhyvahr pushed himself off the floor.

His heart gave a start again when he saw the person standing at his door.

“How long have you been standing there?” Rhyvahr asked, scrambling to get his underclothes back on.

How long have you been abusing substances? Fenndon signed, it was clear from the cold expression on his face that he had no sympathy for Rhyvahr. Why should he?

“Now is not a good time,” Rhyvahr said, sloppily trying to sign back.

He couldn’t let anybody see him in this state. Broken and weak. They could do anything to him.

Fenndon’s eyes were hard, hands clenched into fists. Anger was an expression Rhyvahr never wanted to see on Fenndon.

He collapsed back on the floor. The painkillers made his muscles all weak. He was completely helpless now.

Fenndon came closer. His features softened because Rhyvahr knew that he could never stay angry for long even when he should – his soul was just that kind, and his heart was just that good.

What happened to you, Rhyvahr? Fenndon looked genuinely concerned. A lock of hair had fallen in front of his face, partially obscuring his furrowed brows.

“It is not a topic I like to discuss,” Rhyvahr slurred. “So I am not going to.”

Fenndon twisted the tin between his deft fingers. He set it back on Rhyvahr’s vanity. Why, Rhyvahr? Just tell me why and I will stop asking. His signs were all blurring together, but Rhyvahr knew what Fenndon was asking. Crystal clear.

“Because it hurts.”

There was a patchwork of red marks all over his back – it was side effect.

And the roots of his wings.

His beautiful wings made of black feathers that used to trail behind him when he walked. The wind used to rushed through them when he soared through the air and ruled the sky with the birds and the clouds. They used to wrap around him when he slept. Like an embrace.

He could still feel them sometimes. Imaginary feathers ghosting the surface of his skin. But when he reached to touch them, they faded.

He remembered waking up in the infirmary, half-blinded by the white sheets. It clung to his skin coated by sweat because his fever had finally broken. He was cold, and his Father’s fingertips were warm against his back.

But the pain. It was blinding. And he kept clawing at the raw wounds on his back to get it to stop. So his Father had to tie him down, and listen to his screams and cries every night.

When he was well enough to get out of bed, he stood by the window and looked out at the world he could no longer trust.

“Rhyvahr,” his Father approached behind him, talking like Rhyvahr was some dying animal that needed to be put out of its misery. “How are you feeling?”

“They are gone,” Rhyvahr said. He had been staring hard at his reflection and not a black feather in sight. He breathed shakily, determined not to cry. He was done with crying.

“I am sorry, there was nothing else I could do,” his Father said. “The poison kept spreading. It would have killed you.”

And now, Rhyvahr was on the floor, admitting his deepest shame to Fenndon. Fenndon sat down beside him, a cotton pad in hand to remove Rhyvahr’s make-up. Rhyvahr felt his gentle fingers pressing against his forehead, his eyelids, his lips.

He would never have let anyone else see him like this. But he supposed Fenndon had always been special.

“It was hunters,” Rhyvahr said, looking into Fenndon’s studious, grey eyes. “They struck me with an arrow then chained me up to a tree and doused my wings with poison. By the time Father got to me, it was too late. He had no other choice.” He choked, turning away. “I wanted so desperately for everything to be normal again, I just wanted things to go back to the way they were. I did not want Father to worry about me anymore.”

Fenndon stroked Rhyvahr’s hair softly. You should rest. Fenndon helped him up and tucked him beneath the sheets. And Rhyvahr fell asleep to Fenndon’s soft humming. Sometimes when I think of a song in my mind, I can hum it. I may not be able to hear it with my ears, but I can hear it in my mind. That was what Fenndon had told him once.

Rhyvahr wondered what song it was.

He awoke to a heavy pounding in his head. He was alone. Wait, Fenndon was here last night. Or had it all been a dream?

He looked to his bedside table where Fenndon’s beautiful handwriting marked a piece of parchment.

Meet me at the carriages. I leave at noon.

-Fen

Fen. That was the name that had been echoing in his mind all those years.

Rhyvahr bolted out of bed as the gong rung for noon. It wasn’t surprising he had slept that long, but he was not going to let Fenndon leave just like that. He chucked on whatever clothing was laying around in his wardrobe and ran out of his room without bothering about make-up or hair.

He rushed to the courtyard, despite his boots not being at all suitable for running and the leftover painkillers in his system making his head spin. He stumbled, almost falling down the stairs just in time to see the first carriage leave.

Rhyvahr’s heart sank a little. What if Fenndon was in that carriage?

He felt a hand on his shoulder. The warmth of the touch seeping through all those layers of clothing.

“Fen,” Rhyvahr said, a feeling of breathlessness taking over him.

I am sorry for what happened to you, Rhyvahr, Fenndon signed. I am sorry I was not there.

“I should be the one apologising to you,” Rhyvahr said. The hurt that had been on Fenndon’s face that day was imprinted forever into his mind. “What I did—” Fenndon pressed a finger to Rhyvahr’s lips.

Yes, you hurt me, Fenndon signed. You slept with someone else after promising me that I was the only one you loved. Then you just left, as though you did not care. It is easy for you to find those willing to be with you. But it is different for me, and you never understood that.

The guilt ate away at Rhyvahr’s heart. It had been eating away at his heart ever since he left.

“I have not been with anyone after you,” Rhyvahr said.

Fenndon pressed his hands against Rhyvahr’s cheeks, a blush colouring them red. I hold no grievance towards you, Rhyvahr, I wish you all the best.

“Will I ever see you again?” Rhyvahr asked.

Fenndon bit his lip. Maybe, he signed. Until then, get better, Rhyvahr. If not for yourself, for me.

With that, he left. Climbing into the carriage where Aikirra was waiting.

Fenndon’s words reached straight to Rhyvahr’s heart. He got rid of the tin and vowed to be better when they saw each other again. 

But Rhyvahr would not see Fenndon until years and years later.