Glamour of Tangled Limbs

Note: Glamour of Tangled Limbs is inspired by the Dancing Plague of 1518, France.

Human lives meant nothing.

Not to them anyway. Tonight was marked by the birth of the beloved Prince Alandore, second son of the High King. Faeries adored all things grand, and the Princelings' feast would be the epitome of grandeur. A rich occasion fit for royalty: gowns of lace and chiffon, corsets made using bone or silver, jewels, and centuries-old drink. Celebrations of this kind were held to a high standard, and the best amusement would be expected. Men sat among their most cherished entertainment. Easy to access and fertile.

Twilight was fast approaching. Near time when the realm burst with activity. See, fae are creatures of the night, thriving under the bright moon and twinkling stars. On occasion, I wished I had pointed ears such as them or the natural shimmer of their coloured skin. Don’t fool me, most I despised, but some were alright.

A goblet caught the reflection of the vanity mirror, full and nearly spilling over the rim. I had yet to reach for it, knowing what waits inside. Whitefrost—a silverskinned sprite with purple lilacs sprinkled in her ashen hair—pulls the brush through my unkempt brown curls. I wince at her harshness.

“I’d rather Oakwood’s company.” I rub my scalp. Oakwood, whom I call Oak, was my favourite attendant. The brownie was well…brown everywhere—caramel flesh and cinnamon irises. She was quietly tender and loved round gifts, stones found in the riverbeds, and marbles. After so long here, I’d grown accustomed to the strangeness of the folk. In response, Whitefrost rolls her pitch-black eyes. “Enough complaints, girl. Your mortal voice pains my sensitive ears.” I think I sound great, but okay. She continues twisting and knotting and plaiting. Pins disappear from the vanity to hold the braids atop my head. Another five minutes pass, and she steps back to nod at her work. “Oakwood and Bumble are soon to arrive with your gown and jewellery.” Satisfied with the final product, Whitefrost walks to the sturdy door, which thuds closed.

Palms smooth along my dress sides. It is cobalt, red dragons embroidered along the length. Light and breathable fabric. On this night, I was one of the girls selected. Untouched sat the spiked wine. Crushed bloodmoor, a ruby-tinted berry, mixed with fermented grapes. Bloodmoor made people agreeable to tricks and charms, almost glamour in fruit form. Blind willingness that turned us into giddy fools. Many times, I’ve pressed the raw berry to my tongue. It was sweet and tart and slightly tangy. Now, I am less amazed at the effect.

My sapphire necklace falls on my collarbone, gilded chain around my neck. Gemstones and jewels decorated my soft golden skin, touching any place bare of decadence. Oak swept glitter along my shoulders, Bumble fixing anything out of place. Both drop their hands once finished. The goblet is placed in my grasp. No words were spoken, but I’m able to read Bumble’s expression. Drink, or there will be consequences. Tipping it back, liquid trickles into my throat until nothing remains. A couple of drops land on my lips. I lick them up.

______________________________

Laughter comes from every corner. Ring-clad fingers pluck stringed instruments: Lutes, harps, violins. Whatever pleases the crowd's ears. Tables upon tables line the ballroom, mountains of food on them. Full of different meals and themes. One has a roasted goose resting on everleaves, golden apples, and ripe pears. A table beside it holds giant pigs, juniper and rosemary sprouting on the platter beneath it. Delicious smells fly across the room. Thyme, tart oranges, mushrooms, salt-baked fish, fit for a scion.

Pale human servants carry light amber mead and pale brandy on silver trays, offering glasses to the waiting fae. Among them, Prince Alandore lounges on a throne of branches and blooming flowers, a gleaming chalice in his left hand, and crown woven around his giant antlers. Beside him, a plate of acorns is half eaten. Men like him intrigued me. So handsome, but so dangerous.

In earnest, I try to appear as lurid as possible, grinning wide, widening my eyes in false wonder. I can feel the lingering bloodsmoor flow in my veins. Oakwood and Bumble had already been gone and didn’t witness me forcing myself to spit the contents into a plant. I’d been doing it for months without notice.

I adjust my dress, higher to conceal my exposed ribcage. Uncomfortable by wandering stares. Little Princeling’s gaze found mine often. Those honeyed eyes waver when a leaf-haired gancanagh steals his attention. Once the gancanagh steps away, he waves his hand. He wants me to dance. I grit my teeth, but appear happy as pie.

Limbs tangle in delight. Almost like a disease, dance spreads among women and men. I can’t deny the infectious music turned slightly alluring, hips rotating in minor circles. Faeries enjoyed watching mortal dances; it entertained them to no end. To my right, a girl pulls me into her grasp, hands resting on my waist. My own are tossed around her neck. Stuck in her embrace, I can only admire the feel of her. She smells of intoxicating jasmine. Looks just as toxic, dark skin and features. Around us, pairs sprout, some partners human, others fey.

Futtering, I can hardly keep my eyes open. Hours pass by, and still I find myself trapped in this endless cycle. Weight drags my legs slower. Jasmine girl long left. Countless bodies have dropped in exhaustion. They are simply skipped over. As usual, tonight's feast took a turn. Festivities continue, but we don’t stop plunging to the floor. Already, I know many have died, and more will be injured. New persons will be imported, replaced to breed or serve. Regardless of my protests of consuming bloodmoor, I was shackled into the eternal dance to entertain their grand feasts. Cruel laughs ring in my ears. Suddenly, an arm hooks my wrist. Sharp black nails—claws—dig into my sensitive flesh.

Somehow, I make it out of the throng of the drunk. Brain repeating my mantra: Leave. Leave. Leave! While Prince Alandore parties well into the sun's waking, I gather my things. Let them assume I died of exhaustion.

I am never returning.