Dance.

She spun and twirled and made her mark on the floor, moving with the beat of the song that poured out her heart's tragedy better than she ever could. The candles on the floor and windows and tables flickered and fluttered as she moved, the air whooshing by them and causing them to lend themselves unwillingly to a dance they had no and every right to attend.

Dance.

She moved her arms slowly, undulating to the tempo of the music. She lived for the song and the song for her, each wrapping around the other until they were indistinguishable from each other, lovers of a different world, lovers on a different plane. She worshiped the song as it sung the melody that rang from her soul, and she danced to create, using her body to express the pain and heartache that sobbed from the voices and the instruments.

Dance.

She laughed and cried as the song played on and on, repeating itself as she repeated the words in her head, silently reliving each instant, each memory that caused her to fall with broken wings and be unable to fly again. She was scared and alone and broken but she was still alive. Her body moved, tired and beaten and shaken with exhaustion, but she didn't stop. Her dance wasn't done, and as long as the song went on so would she.

Dance.

Her dreams shattered and in tatters around her, she moved sluggishly, staggeringly, slow. The chorus twirled around her like smoke, burning her eyes and searing and choking her throat with salt and water and burning singeing streaks on her face. Voices soared and fell as her steps slowed and sped up, unsteady and uncertain.

Dance.

She was no longer so proud of herself, of her decisions. She had tried so hard to be happy, only to be crushed and destroyed under the weight of things not her own. Her riches turned to rags, her happiness to sadness and despair and tears, she carried herself through life without a purpose, without a reason. She remembered herself long ago, proud, unafraid to walk through life, and now she was a shell of who she once was. She was broken and shattered and dead inside, a cracked doll with a broken spring, lacking the will to even look herself in the mirror anymore and truly see.

Dance.

The chorus rang and blood pounded in her ears, forcing her to move and breathe and dance. Her body burned, she was on fire, a flame of flesh, burning and singeing and turning herself into something else. A phoenix rising from the ashes as she spun in circles, her arms above her head and her feet, bare and bloody and sore, pounded the ground and stomped the floor. She didn't allow herself to rest, to breathe, to think. All she had wanted was to exorcise her demons and feel nothing, but now.... now the fire was alive again, the fire inside her heart and soul and brain, the fire long thought extinguished, the fire that burned brighter than any lantern or light or bonfire. She was a phoenix, and this song was her catalyst. This song was what caused the dying flame to burn out in a blaze of glory and be reborn in a burst of life, the never-ending cycle forced by words and songs and notes not her own but all the more personal, all the same.

Dance.

She stomped on the floor, moving faster, quicker, fluidly. Her body was not her own anymore, and the song was no longer in her ears. It was in her blood, it was in her brain, it was in her soul and curling and exploding and burning like oil and rags and dry cracked wood, sending smoke into her eyes and throat and through her fingers, silky smooth and oily wet and ethereally dry.

Dance.

She burned brightly, turning and spinning and laughing and crying and dying, a new path opening and unfolding and burning and dying and disappearing and opening again, a never-ending cycle in her eyes and brain and soul, the fire moving faster and faster, heating her blood and her brain like a fever that would not break. She was caught in the spell and laughed as it grew hotter than hot and colder than cold.

Dance.

Death was not so bad, and neither was life.

Dance.

She spun and the candles fell. Wax splattered over the floor, pooling and squishing and caking under her feet and she paid it no mind. The fire was her disease and her cure, and she couldn't and wouldn't and shouldn't stop, beating out a pattern with fire and wax and blood and smoke, creating a phoenix's flame and pyre that would make the gods themselves proud.

Dance.

She was beyond herself now as the fire roared around her. The smoke was choking, the fire was so hot it was freezing her limbs, but she couldn't and didn't stop moving, her clothes taking on the appearance and feel of feathers, fluttering and fiery and so alive with passion that she wouldn't shed them for the world. Her hands and arms became her wings, and she took flight that night, her pattern and her path alive and open and ready for her, the ashes of the old life falling to the ground like snow.

Dance.

She was fire, and she was alive.

Dance.

And all she could do was smile and laugh and cry because it was all she wanted to do, and all she could do, and all she did. The dance had taken her and she had taken it, and they were so entwined the death of one was the death of the other, and it was never to be any other way. She knew what it meant, deep down in the embers that still burned within her, to do such a thing, and she couldn't think of anything better than to go out in a fiery pattern of footsteps and footfalls and swinging hips and eyes closed and creased with lashes, of hands that moved and flew and entwined with smoke like weavers with yarn, of a body and of blood that burned brighter than the hottest star and colder than the deepest ice. She was everything and nothing and all it took were the voices and song of another to make her see.

Dance.

She was no more, and she was forever, eternal, everlasting and alive, caught in a dance that was not her own and so close to her heart that she would die without it, and it would die without her, and that was worse than her dreams and her hopes and her riches dying and shattering and tearing and dying. The fire could not be allowed to die, and so she danced on, ignore the pain and the wax and the smoke and the tears, and only laughed and cried and smiled as she could.

Dance.

So mote it be.