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Welly was always a step out of sync with the Order of the Oaken Oar.
Her laugh was too loud, her desires too on her sleeve, her eyes too bright. She reacted just before or just after them, found the wrong jokes funny, and took the wrong lessons from the stories they unearthed.
(The gods would be displeased with her, they liked to remind her when she stepped out of line. When they thought she should be ashamed. She was ashamed)
Balls were where she came alive, floating to the music as if she were born to do it. The Ender’s Waltz was second nature to her. And if a noble lady took her breath away, well, she didn’t need to speak to be swept away on the dance floor.
A dance with Lady Geneviere stunned her like none had before. And she should have known that she was just being kind to her, a good host who would go through the motions with anyone on her dance card. She should have known that the Lady of the house would have someone already, that she wouldn’t have spared her a second glance either way.
(But she wasn’t supposed to know about the sonnet. Nobody else was)
When she fled the Order, she was quick, and it hurt more than she ever wished it would. She loved them, in her own way, even when she felt out of place. She was proud to be a knight, even when it mixed with the guilt. She wondered why the gods had to make life so complicated and worried that she was playing with blasphemy in the same thought.
.
.
.
And soon enough she met Boggy and Zudrick, and she felt steady with them, in a way that she hadn’t realized was possible. Boggy spun his tales of adventure and Zudrick laughed at their jokes and she found the magic and the gods everywhere they went. The perfect team, if they did say so themselves.
She didn’t know her heart could swell like that, with concern or with love, until she was watching over her newest companions. Until she peered over the ledge for Boggy, heart pounding out of her chest as she threw down the Opal Sunsword and a sigh of relief escaping her as they watched him fly back up. Until she looked into Zudrick’s eyes for the first time and saw trust and she felt her own eyes soften at his gaze. Until she realized that they were writing a new story, one that was all their own.
.
.
.
Fae had stopped her in her tracks again, but this time the disarming felt good as she was swept off her feet into the best waltz she’d ever danced. The uncertainty still made her heart pound, the desire still made shame well up inside of her, but just looking into Fae’s eyes could make that wash away.
She’d never prayed as hard as she did as they ran from the castle, Fae lying in her arms, alive but too close to the other side for comfort, and the prayers barely left her mind until she knew that they were in the clear. She’d never wanted something as much as she’d wanted a response to the letter she wrote for Fae when all was said and done.
(Maybe this time, the poem would make it to the one who inspired it)
When Fae was healed, stronger and ready to take on the world, Welly felt the timidness creeping back. Things were going so well between them that she didn’t dare risk ruining it, and the black lace was still so fresh in their minds she was afraid Fae would break if she pushed too hard. But she found that they could take things slowly, that they were both content to sit under the stars and whisper stories new and old to each other until they should have been asleep hours ago. And that was enough. She was enough.