Chapter 25
What makes her so right?
Is it the sound of her laugh?
That look in her eyes
When do you decide?
She is the dream that you seek
That force in your life
- What makes a man, Westlife
April 3rd - Grythen
Zaelem
You know how, in movies, they always smile and pat the other guy’s back and say, “She’s all yours, buddy”, and then the generous guy will step back, join the audience in the clapping, while his buddy walks his lucky ass down the aisle, to the beaming bride.
Zaelem sighed. Watching his best friend dancing with a girl should not have been so difficult. It had always been like this: Chairon the dazzler, Zaelem the wallflower-or rather, more appropriately, wallpaper.
He withdrew his breath sharply and turned his face away. It was an agonizing sight. What the hell went wrong? She was simply a rowdy little girl who messed up a week of his life…
… and probably the rest of it too.
By now, the whole court was gossiping about Zaelem and Kismette. They had gone past the stage of shock and in its place, a feverish interest in what really took place between them. The court was divided into groups; the very few who knew Zaelem vaguely were unable to comprehend why such a hard-hearted person like him would actually accommodate a stranger; people who did not know Zaelem at all said perhaps he took a sudden pity to the girl; the rest who disliked him called him a selfish bastard for trying to keep the healer for himself.
Kismette. Even the sound of her name made him feel lighter. She was someone unknown, someone new; someone who did not know his past, someone whom he could take his jaded amour off in front of. She was this special person who could somehow step past the invisible wall that shielded him from the emotions of this slippery world which he never fully grasped. She was the only one who could make him feel carefree, like an antelope ready to leap and roam the world.
Zaelem continued to let his eyes stray in the whole room, as though interested in nothing. From the corners of his vision, he caught a glimpse of Kismette stepping on Chairon’s feet. The clumsy girl stepped back in fright and apologized repeatedly in embarrassment while Chairon laughed and put his arm around her shoulders, assuring her everything was okay.
Zaelem rolled his eyes. Like shit everything is okay. He stood up stiffly and walked towards the waitress carrying the tray of red wine at the other end of the hall. Hell, even the waitresses were avoiding his corner of the room.
Just as he was about to bring his index finger up to signal for a glass, the waitress turned to face the other direction, looking around for other guests who might want a drink. Zaelem cleared his throat softly. When the waitress did not respond, he cleared his throat again, louder. The bewildered waitress turned to him and stared as he pointed sharply at her tray.
“Oh, you want a drink, Master Dragonoir?” she asked sweetly.
Zaelem furrowed his brows and simply took a glass from the tray himself. He walked towards the nearest armchair slowly and sat down, hoping that he would stay unnoticed. Then, he wished that someone would at least notice his presence. It felt extra horrible to feel marooned in a room of people. Even the windows had curtains.
So, he took her first dance. What’s next? The muscles around his jaw tightened as his thoughts wandered. He did not even notice it when Mejaine sat on the chair beside his and he jumped a little when she spoke.
“So, tell me, when did you change your target for peeping on?” she purred and began smoothing out imaginary creases on the armrest, admiring the gold patterns embroidered on the deep blue satin.
“And when did you change your policy on not displaying affection publicly?” he shot her a glance of daggers, but broke their eye contact swiftly.
“Oh,” Mejaine smiled, drawing her words out leisurely, “such a prude you still are, Darling. That was so, so, so many years ago. I could hardly remember that.”
“Yea, after all the ‘secret tea times’ at ‘our usual spot’ and your refusal to make our relationship known all these years, I am the prude,” he replied angrily, almost raising his voice. Still, he could not bear to meet her eyes.
“Well,” she paused, sculpting her sentence carefully, “a certain occurrence made me realize I should appreciate you more.”
Zaelem made a face. What? What was that? Another joke at his expense? “You said we were over,” he stated matter-of-factly, fixing his eyes at somewhere near the side of her head.
Mejaine raised her eyebrows. “But you were pretty relentless, my dear,” she smirked, causing him to take in a huge lungful of air and look away again.
She leaned closer and whispered, “That designer tea set-next week.”
“Next month.”
Mejaine frowned a little and settled deeper in her seat, crossing her arms. “Don’t you negotiate with me,” she demanded.
“My account’s all cleaned out, Jane. I’ve got not a single cent left. I need to get my pay check first,” Zaelem sighed. He felt so tired of this game all of a sudden.
The dancetress’s frown deepened upon seeing his nonchalance. “Okay then, as long as you’re sincere.”
“You would have thought that after all these years, it would have proven me to be so,” Zaelem replied drily.
“Not after your disobedient eyes followed another girl’s skirt,” she replied promptly. Her choice of words made him writhed a little in his seat, but it only made her feel even more satisfied. She gave a dramatic sigh as she played with her hair, and then said, “How about treasuring people closer to you, someone more… attainable?”
Zaelem’s defence mechanism finally kicked in. “You can keep your advice to yourself,” he responded vacantly and took a sip of his wine, an expressionless façade camouflaging his face. It was a mask he had conditioned himself to put on anytime he needed it. There was nothing on his face for her to read.
Mejaine glowered at the ceiling momentarily, suppressing her surging pride. Arrogance had not gotten her far these days. Instead, being sweet and loving served her well. With Evelynn as her trump card, she knew the details of what occurred during Kismette’s days with Zaelem, as though she had chatted with Kismette herself. Mejaine narrowed her eyes at the thought of that hateful girl.
“What makes you think that you are so out of my league? I happen to know that you, Sir, have been watching me all the while,” she spoke softly in an undertone.
“Oh no, I’m just an apathetic fool who doesn’t deserve anyone. I can only watch ladies from afar. And maybe I’m just too naïve, but I don’t think I like it when women throw themselves at men, Mistress Mejaine,” he said with his usual composure.
Mejaine’s face hardened as she bit her lower lips hard. Who would have thought that words spoken a century ago could actually come back to haunt her?
“Well then keep your eyes to yourself, Master Dragonoir,” she said hotly on impulse, like an accusation of infidelity. At a sudden loss of what to do next, she stood up and turned to leave hurriedly. Her foot was caught behind the leg of her chair and a hasty yank knocked the chair into the lacquered end table. Both the vase of flowers on the table and the dancetress lost their balance.
Instinctively, Zaelem placed his glass on the floor and shot out of his seat, his arms readied like a protective net. He caught Mejaine first, but quickly let her drop to the ground again before catching the vase instead.
Mejaine glared at him, hurt glazing her eyes and an unspoken question forming on her lips. She hobbled away angrily, leaning heavily on one foot while the other foot only tapped lightly on the floor. Zaelem widened his eyes in concern, regretting his ungentlemanly deed as he realized that she had already twisted her foot before this. And almost nothing is more important to a dancer than her feet.
I shouldn’t have.
He shook his head and forced himself to stay where he stood, holding the heavy vase by its rim. It was time he retained some pride. Besides, there was no point in running after her this time round-not after he just allowed her to crash to the floor. But I really shouldn't have.
Mejaine, Mejaine, Mejaine. A wistful smile found its way to his lips as righted the vase on the table. His thoughts were running like a ghost train, bashing through walls and aiming for nowhere. To want to dance with Kismette-is that considered two-timing? To enjoy spending time with someone when he still loved another? Where exactly was he with Mejaine anyway? And, most importantly, how did Kismette feel towards him?
It never seemed lonely until Kismette appeared. And it had never been lonelier until she left, leaving a void in her wake. Every waking hour in his shabby hut was spent recounting their conversations, the silly actions she did, the things she had done to anger him. Sometimes, he even imagined her presence and talked to the Kismette in his head aloud. He could scarcely differentiate the things that really took place from the things he had imagined anymore. Hell, he wasn’t sure if he even liked Kismette.
The only thing he knew?
He missed her like crazy.
Previous: Chapter 24
Next: Chapter 26