A/N: A scene based on my impressions after listening to the song “Into the Night.” Disclaimer: “Into the Night” is not mine, but I don’t know the singer’s name—sorry!

Dedication: To some friends.

Chiaroscuro

He finds the contrast in the scene to be fascinating; if he were an artist, he would paint his canvas with the darkest velvety black and bits of lighter color here and there. The fire is dying and offers less illumination than the cold moon, a waxing crescent in the western sky. The moon’s light is white but dead; he likes the play of fiery, living light across her hair better.

She, of course, is the focal point--the beautiful but melancholy woman with the long hair and the dark dress. He watches her spin, watches the dress pull around her legs and her hair whip her face then stretch out behind her. Her bare feet move in intricate patterns through the dirt; her hands clap out the rhythm of the silent music in her head.

The image would fill any viewer with questions: why does she dance? Her face is hidden; does she smile or is she sad? Is this a dance of joy or grief?

There is something devilish about the red light on her skin, brightening white flesh to a fiery hue. Something demonic, too, about the way her dark eyes seem too big for her face—too large, too dark, like shadowy pits with something hidden within reflecting the moonlight.

She turns toward him, half a moment’s pause in her ritual, and each looks straight at the other. One instant of crystallized silence stretches out between them. He cannot breath; all rational thought has left him. Her face is dark; the expression is not visible, but two pairs of dark eyes share some understanding; share a secret only considered in darkest, forgotten dreams; the best kept secret in a world which shouts it out each day.

One frozen second of purest comprehension.

Then it is over. She spins away, dancing faster now, wilder, her feet and hands beating out this brighter tempo. The fire seems to join in—the embers glow stronger and pops of wood are accompanied by sparks shooting up and fading. The woman whirls, dancing no longer only for herself, but also for the observer, hidden by shadows no more. The air—the whole forest—pulses to the cadence of her feet. The dance is now one of energy—unbridled, terrified enthusiasm for tomorrow and the future it now brings.

And he watches, breathless, the most perfect picture he has ever seen.

FIN