Itascrian mansions are built with grandeur in mind. And this particular hall, in this particular mansion, is no exception; it is massive, echoing with each step of claws that hit the tiles, and a single person cannot fill the space alone.
But still, why waste a dance floor?
So it starts with a step. Just one, the click of claws on marble, and followed immediately by another. Venturing into the centre of the hall with a growing confidence, and then the last step is a hop.
His arms rise to the level of his chest, taking a quick step to the left, then the right. Like jumping through the brambles, a rat-like reflex. Then one forward, to the right, behind, a box – the outline of a Palace, a cage.
But this rat is not in a cage. He is dancing. And so he raises his arms above his head, jerky motions upwards until he bends back in one, slow movement. Until he’s near folded in half. He is weak, vulnerable like this; one knife in the gut is enough.
He twists back into standing. And he kicks his leg out in front of him, dropping onto it for another, unbalanced kick, and it is wild and he seems on the verge of falling at any moment. He does not. He is in control. His lies, his words, are all within his control, they do not spiral without his consent, they do not break free of him at moments unbidden, and it was not worth it. None of it was worth it.
He keeps dancing.
He spins. And spins, and spins, and the hall blurs into a mess of colours until it melts into trees and forest. A wood cabin, an old woman bleeding out onto the wooden floor, her blood drying into dark stains like the marbling in the tiles spreading towards his feet, and he spins and spins until he is in an orchard and the windows are wide enough to let in the same sun that beats down on heavy trees, and he spins and warms and the fire burned so very hot. He knows now, what it feels like to be burned. And he spins and spins and spins -
And he falls, tripping on his own tail.
Funny, that.
The dance ends. But he sits there, for a few more moments, in the silence of the hall and the emptiness of memory.
Eventually he pushes off the floor and sweeps the dust off of his clothes. Not that it’s needed – the floor is spotless, here. And so the rat moves on, into the next room.