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Jun. 27th, 2013 02:20 pmSince the end of Swan Lake and the start of rehearsals for Carnival of the Birds, she's been careful to hold back. To force herself to make little mistakes here and there despite the fact that she memorized her choreography within the first rehearsal. Even then, she's one of the best dancers in the company. But it's a normal best, explained away by talent and focus, nothing to hint at the full extent of what she can do. And it's enough, usually. She doesn't want to stand out, and certainly doesn't want to make people feel nervous or inferior as Ayako-san has hinted she does. So she messes up occasionally, dances less than her best.
But it's hard. Hard work that leaves her muscles quivering with tension in addition to the normal day's exhaustion. She should be grateful, she knows. BELLS offers a chance for a normal life while still getting to do at least part of what she loves. And everyone, from Ueno-sensei on down has been wonderful. But sometimes she resents it, resents the limitations she has had to set for herself. Her body cries out to be set free, and dance like she used to. For Him. But not for Him any more. Dancing just for herself, for the glory of the dance.
Today though she's hung back as the rest of the company leaves, and slips over to the smaller practice room. They're allowed to use it of course, but she still feels a fission of nervousness, nerves screaming to move quick-quick before someone saw her. Once in the room she relaxed, her dance bag sliding from her shoulder onto the floor next to the door. There's a sound system in the corner, but she ignores it as she sits on one of the benches swapping out her street shoes for dance slippers. No need to actually play it and potentially draw the very attention she's here to avoid. Not when the strong chords of the falcon's song rings clearly through her mind.
She starts slow - no need to truly warm up with a full day of rehearsal already behind her, but there's no need to rush. Simple, smooth movements close to the actual choreography, mimicking a soaring flight. She closes her eyes and lets her feet take her where they will, ranging across the dance floor following the music in her head. Each step graceful, powerful and sure. In a realm where light and heat are luxuries offered only to those who pleased Him, she'd learned quickly how not to make mistakes.
But it's not just that grace she's learned and now has to hide, and as the music in her head builds, she stretches her muscles, into leaps and turns, feet barely touching the ground before pushing off again. Eyes still closed, picturing cloudless skies and the wind under imaginary wings. She's sweating now, rivulets of water running down the back of her neck, soaking the underside of her hair, but she barely feels it. The music is building, building, and the empty expanse of the floor is no longer quite enough space. The benches and chairs that line the walls get drawn into the dance; props and suports for runs and leaps no sane choreographer would design for fear of injuring their dancers. Steps and leaps were the slightest wrong move or shift of balance would end in strains at best, torn tendons at worst. But she's danced on stages made from nothing more than overlapping leaves. She won't falter or fall.
The soundtrack in her head reaches it's climax, expressed physically in a run, turn, leap series that carries her nearly all the way across the room into the final pose. Movement into perfect stillness, the falcon come to rest. She holds the pose for a long moment, now feeling the sweat, the pounding of her heart, the ache in her whole body. Pain now, yes, but it wouldn't be dance without pain, and she welcomes it into herself gladly. She has danced, and it is, as always, glorious.
But it's hard. Hard work that leaves her muscles quivering with tension in addition to the normal day's exhaustion. She should be grateful, she knows. BELLS offers a chance for a normal life while still getting to do at least part of what she loves. And everyone, from Ueno-sensei on down has been wonderful. But sometimes she resents it, resents the limitations she has had to set for herself. Her body cries out to be set free, and dance like she used to. For Him. But not for Him any more. Dancing just for herself, for the glory of the dance.
Today though she's hung back as the rest of the company leaves, and slips over to the smaller practice room. They're allowed to use it of course, but she still feels a fission of nervousness, nerves screaming to move quick-quick before someone saw her. Once in the room she relaxed, her dance bag sliding from her shoulder onto the floor next to the door. There's a sound system in the corner, but she ignores it as she sits on one of the benches swapping out her street shoes for dance slippers. No need to actually play it and potentially draw the very attention she's here to avoid. Not when the strong chords of the falcon's song rings clearly through her mind.
She starts slow - no need to truly warm up with a full day of rehearsal already behind her, but there's no need to rush. Simple, smooth movements close to the actual choreography, mimicking a soaring flight. She closes her eyes and lets her feet take her where they will, ranging across the dance floor following the music in her head. Each step graceful, powerful and sure. In a realm where light and heat are luxuries offered only to those who pleased Him, she'd learned quickly how not to make mistakes.
But it's not just that grace she's learned and now has to hide, and as the music in her head builds, she stretches her muscles, into leaps and turns, feet barely touching the ground before pushing off again. Eyes still closed, picturing cloudless skies and the wind under imaginary wings. She's sweating now, rivulets of water running down the back of her neck, soaking the underside of her hair, but she barely feels it. The music is building, building, and the empty expanse of the floor is no longer quite enough space. The benches and chairs that line the walls get drawn into the dance; props and suports for runs and leaps no sane choreographer would design for fear of injuring their dancers. Steps and leaps were the slightest wrong move or shift of balance would end in strains at best, torn tendons at worst. But she's danced on stages made from nothing more than overlapping leaves. She won't falter or fall.
The soundtrack in her head reaches it's climax, expressed physically in a run, turn, leap series that carries her nearly all the way across the room into the final pose. Movement into perfect stillness, the falcon come to rest. She holds the pose for a long moment, now feeling the sweat, the pounding of her heart, the ache in her whole body. Pain now, yes, but it wouldn't be dance without pain, and she welcomes it into herself gladly. She has danced, and it is, as always, glorious.