Lillian

red wine decanted into goblets, cherry juice stains on the grass. the stained-glass colors of a sunrise on linen, passion a ripe fruit on the lowest branch, fireworks bursting on her tongue. you bring me to my knees

drowning in too-loud music how -many---drinks has- she--had i-love-you she waits breath clenched-what? can’t hear you- say again? the loser infatuated with someone at last-never wanted anybody but her and god she tries but fallen angel she is, wreathed in a broken heart and cigarette smoke

In all her years of playing hard and fast and loose with others, Lillian’s never met anyone like Phoenix. She pushes aside others’ feelings as easily as throwing a pair of dice, as tearing a flower to shreds, but seeing her dance twists her up inside, a rawhide ribbon close to its breaking point.

She comes to every performance.

And how it frustrates her, the coquettish rogue, the silver-tongued charmer, the one who’s supposed to sweep others off their feet, but she can’t even work up the nerve to talk to her. Phoenix must have noticed by now, at least, or maybe Lillian’s assessment of herself is too optimistic.

She pines.

After a few weeks of this, Lillian begins daily to leave a red feather on her seat before departing. Every night when she returns, the feather is gone. She doesn’t know whether Phoenix has been taking them or whether the feather has simply drifted away on the breeze, but the thought gives her comfort.

One night, she gets into a fight on the other side of the city and realizes, half an hour too late, that the performance is already halfway finished. She rushes to the theater, breath ragged, clothing torn, hopes beyond hope that she can at least make it to the last ten minutes.

Delayed by pedestrian traffic, she arrives at nearly midnight, far past when all the regulars have departed and the lights have been dimmed. She makes her way through a maze of doors and then, at the top of the stairway that leads to her customary seat, she halts.

Phoenix is there. Her crimson wings, so similar to Lillian’s own, are curled protectively over her pale body, which quivers silently with each breath.

She realizes that the dancer looks distraught.

Surely it can’t be because of her?

Her claws clack against the stone steps as she walks down to the seat row. Phoenix whips around, her expression fierce. For the first time since she’s seen-no, fallen, head-over-heels, for the Skydancer, Lillian is able to marshal her thoughts into cohesive actions and sentences. She feels like her old self again.

“Bellissima,” she says, taking one of the roses she always pins to her clothing and nonchalantly tossing it at her. “Are you okay?”

“You came?” Phoenix asks. Her voice shakes with a repressed sob. “It wasn’t even important to me at first. I always found the feathers after I danced but I didn’t think anything of it. But as time went on, I grew more and more attached. Finding one became the highlight of my day.” She chuckles, blushing madly at the thought of it.


Lillian is again lost for words. Her heart skips a beat, and she has to remind herself to keep breathing, in and out and in and out.

“I kept them. The feathers. I was going to commission jewelry to wear on stage.” Phoenix stutters jerkily.

She realizes that the other Skydancer is looking at her expectantly.

In and out.

“Would you like to...” Lillian’s voice falters and fails her. “Would you like to...try to have a relationship?”

In and out in and out in and out.

“You came.” It isn’t so much a question now as it is a statement. The dancer draws closer and presses her lips to hers.

Lillian gives up on breathing, because all that matters now is the liquid fire coursing through her veins at Phoenix’s feather-light touch.

She tears herself away, bitter as it is to be separated, if only for a heartbeat.

“Always.”

Though she would never admit it, Lillian is vain.

She revels in the glances her flamboyant apparel garners her. Striped puff sleeves of crushed velvet, a bolt of satin tossed nonchalantly over her left shoulder, ruched corsages of black lace and damask roses, plumes of crimson feathers bound with delicate chains of ruby-studded gold, and a blossom clenched delicately in her mouth.

Unsurpassable. Extraordinary. Art.

These are all words that others use to describe her outfits. She cherishes these compliments, confident in herself.

Until she meets Edana for the first time.

Lillian is exiting The Nightcap Lounge, one of her favored bars for both its masterful cocktail mixing and for the discounts its bartenders often give her thanks to being a frequent flyer, when she blinks. Is she seeing double?

Leaning against the door frame of the neighboring building is a willowy Skydancer dressed in a roguish bandana, a jaunty hat, a quiver of arrows, and an assortment of chunky gold bangles that clink gently together.

She’s downed quite a few droughts of alcohol that night, naturally, and isn’t quite sure of her surroundings anymore. Her head spins.

The other Skydancer isn’t wearing quite the same things; for instance, she’d never be caught dead with a hat like that, but she would recognize that signature style anywhere.

They glare at each other for a minute. A slight breeze picks up and lashes their flanks with autumn leaves, all mulled wine and burnt cloves and cinnamon sticks.

“Who are you?” they blurt at the same time.

They glare at each other again, one after another. The tension is palpable.

“Edana,” the Skydancer says. Lillian frowns. It is considered common courtesy for dragons to introduce themselves with their full name. To not follow this means that Edana is either estranged from her family or has not deemed Lillian worthy of even this small courtesy.

“And you are?” Edana prompts, looking irritated.

“Lillian.”

“Say, have we met before? Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think your outfit is a copy of one of mine. Although it clearly wasn’t made to the same standards,” her lip curls in disdain.

The sheer audacity of her!

“You....you thief!” Lillian stammers, at a loss for cutting, snippy words, as she’s so often been since she met Phoenix. Arcanist, she’s really losing her touch.

“You....you worse thief! I’ve been cultivating that style for years, how dare you steal it?” Edana doesn’t hesitate to get in Lillian’s face, jabbing a crimson lacquered claw towards her menacingly.

“Me, steal it? If you’re looking for a thief, I see one standing in front of me.” Her words slur together slightly, and she hopes Edana doesn’t notice. The smoothness of her voice belies the shakiness of her alcohol-fueled limbs. Lillian can feel liquid, reckless, borrowed courage pumping through her veins, emboldening her to make ever grander gestures.


“I wasn’t aware there were any mirrors around here,” Edana smirks slyly.

They go back and forth like this for a while, trading insults like so many bolts of fabric. In the end, they both stumble their respective ways, Lillian home to Phoenix and Edana into the tavern for more drinks.

From then on, they make it a point of pride to one-up each other as much as possible. It is a petty rivalry, but they make it work.

Imitation is the best form of flattery, after all.