10-15-2013, 07:50 AM
[youtube]KLlGgMi4DfE[/youtube]
       He stands with back turned to the base of marbled stairs, masked Lords and veiled Ladies mingle and congregate before his view. Great chiseled white pillars of smoothed stone stretch upwards, and surround a polished wooden floor in the center of a vast ballroom. The ivory walls in-lay with wide arched windows, draped with sheer white-satin curtains, as pale moonlight twinkles and spill past the pillars onto the floor. He only becomes aware of her presence as one by one, Nobles stop to look up and behind him, quiet in their gazes. The black-haired Hyur was the last to turn.
       She stands atop the marbled flight; an elegant white dress with a short trail, that Nymeia, the Spinner herself could be whispered to have taken to needle and thread to create such a garment. They peer behind masks that cover little less than half of their upper features. Hers, intricate with white beads, sequins, and lace. His, a simple black semi-gloss and a long thin feather that bobs at the left end. The memory of every delicate feature needing not to have her mask removed to see her face.
        Left hands slip into another, pieces of a puzzle complete, standing in the middle of the polished pine floor. His lips part to speak, only to be hushed by a slender finger that graces over parted lips as they instead smile, wordless. Loose and styled ringlets of flaxen-hair rest against his chest as he leads. And she follows, with tresses that spill past her shoulders, the color of freshly fallen snow become silvery as they pass between the tall single-arched windows.
        Dark charcoal colored eyes meet with jade green every time she gazes up at him as they glide step by step. As their dance crescendos, they separate with some reluctance, but she unfurls in an effortless pirouette as her dress billows. Their gaze never leaves as left hands grasp unyielding. She leads with a pull of his hand and he follows, though his whirl could never match her sylphlike flow.
        Her svelte frame against his as they pull into one another. Their eyes unwavering as they slowly twirl as one, the vision of her begins to tunnel as the rest all around him fade into but a blur. In silence, they pull what little more of themselves closer together until their foreheads press gingerly. The sweetest smile upon her lips, one that was able to change a man four dozen moons ago. A single tear slips down her cheek as lips so gently meet after eyes hesitantly lose vision of each other as they close shut.
Nymeia, the Spinner.
Â
        The Hyur's eyes slowly flutter open, but not to the woman he so clearly saw moments ago. A small room with gray, rough cobble-stone walls surround the dark-haired Hyur who lies now motionless on a simple bed. Unmasked eyes shifts down to his left hand. His fingers begin to tremble in sight before his head drops back down onto the bed. Lips press together dryly as his throat feels a vice-like grip tighten and chokes at his breath. Tears barely contained as they brim along the lower curvature of eyes that close once more, hoping to see her one last time.
        The raven-haired Hyur sits on the gritty and hard stone windowsill as he stares out of the long rectangle window after he leaves from his scratchy bed sheets. Only a wisp of sunlight in the cloudy sky. The sweet smile upon her lips he would recall most vividly; that smile he believed to have been able to change the course of Eorzea alone. The smile that changed him so very long ago.
Nymeia, the Spinner—Goddess of Fate.
