She stood, with one side, her left facing him, arms at rest at her side, legs together, the weight on the balls of her feet. The lighting was dim, the shadows outlining her pale skin -- the curve of her bald head, the arch of her cheekbone, the folds of cloth over her torso and arms. There was a sense of stillness about her, almost like a sculpture of a woman. But, unlike a sculpture the stillness was poised, caught in a moment between motions. He could see the tension in her muscles as she stood, ready to fly.
The music started and she rose up, onto her toes at the beat of the drum. A quick series of kicks and steps put her back to him. Her movements were sudden, yet natural, like the branches of a tree whipping about in a storm. The pipes started to play, and she starting singing -- a drawn out series of syllables, too slow to make out the words of the melody.
She did another turn, and he finally caught a glimpse of the right side of her face. Her right eye was sewn shut, a horrific scar running from her denuded brow across her cheek to near the base of her ear. Her hand darted across her face, and he caught the glint of metal off her fingers. They clicked as they moved, a rhythm that matched the music.
The expression on her face was far more noticeable than the scars, though. Her good eye was closed, her head tilted up to the sky, her lips slightly parted. Gone were the pinched lines of worry, the wide eyes, the reek of fear. It was the only time he had seen her happy since he had met her.
The tempo of the music grew faster and her gyrations kept pace -- a controlled frenzy of arms and legs and head and flapping clothing. Suddenly, it ceased and she froze, her clothing a step behind her.
"Minebi," he spoke, after a moment to catch his breath. She looked up, frowning suddenly tense and fearful. She relaxed -- but not fully, never fully -- when she saw who was speaking to her. "Minebi, that was beautiful."
"Thank you," she said quietly, looking away.
"One question though..."
"Yes?" She was flushed from the dance, though the glow was fading quickly.
"Normally the dance is a devotional. Yet, you've told me, repeatedly and at great length, that you don't believe any more." He left the question unasked.
"I don't. I don't dance for taomae, or for any spirit or god or force of nature. I dance for myself. Dancing is the only time I'm in control," she gave him a wry smile, as she turned to leave. "And then I fly, above the wind."