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Quote; "I think I'm gonna lose my mind"
For Briar the feeling of lonely had never quite left. Her parents were married and affectionate, they doted and spoiled their only daughter excessively, and she was lucky enough to be born into an upper class caste where her status was a beacon for friends and acquaintances. Still, Briar felt a tainted mark of isolation bleed into her pure heart.
To distract herself, she spent most of her days in the studio. She would practise tirelessly not to achieve perfection but to forget the lonely. Today she felt the first rays of sunlight caress her face gently. They basked the room in hues of gold and amber. The sight of a sky painted peach, honey and rose temporarily distracted her from the ache of her feet and the throb of her triceps.
She had practised her pirouettes for an hour, just to be able to feel the wind rush through her loose hair and sting her face with its cold fingers. It made her feel alive, which killed the lonely. But even Briar Martin could not pirouette for an hour and not feel some kind of heavy side affect.
She fell to the polished oak floor in an ungraceful heap. Her limbs splayed themselves around her in a tangle of skin and exercise tights.
"I leave, five minutes and you lose all technique and rhythm," he drawls in broken English, his Russian accent thickly painted on his tongue.
She sighed hopelessly, knowing no excuse could prevent the criticism to come.
"No sigh like pathetic puppy dog, you are dancer. Embody elegance and grace, not wallop about like elephant and complain feet hurt after hour practise," Romanov shook his head in annoyance, "you request harder training, better exposure; I secure you soloist position, High Councilman meeting and you throw away whatever talent and dignity you left!"
"My mother asked for those things," she grumbled softly, slowly sitting upright.
"I not care for specifics there, Miss Martin, enough moping, assemblès!"
Silently, she clicked her jaw and stood in first. Her tutor was satisfied for now, but he was certain to harsher her treatment in preparation for the most important performance of her life.
...............
Harold Edward Styles came from old money. His great Grandfather was a part of the Council Saltator, managing entertainers-mostly dancers. The money had been lost in a dishonourable way that had cost the Styles their original family name-Evans-and their stature in society. The had fallen from great heights and the family reaped the repercussions of Grandfather Styles' actions.
He glanced around his dorm, which he shared with fourteen other young men like himself. It was too small for them all to fit comfortably but none complained, for most it was a decent upgrade from the conditions at home and besides, it wasn't like any of them would say anything and risk their lives.
It smelled of sweat and mud; a scent they had eventually grown accustomed to, Harry was disgusted to admit, and it only had two bedrooms. Boys shared beds, three to a mattress, and others slept on the floor in a heap of scavenged blankets and rugs.
There was one bathroom, a square foot shower, a toilet missing the lid and a grating sink. They didn't own a mirror, nor a couch or basic entertainment means. Everything they had and would get, had to be earned they were novices and nothing they had done impressed the Council yet.
Harry sighed, staring at the cracked yellow ceiling and prayed to whoever was listening for a miracle, for a way out to something better.
