Chapter Text
Martha never thought she’d see a ballet again. How strange it is that she is wrong.
Everything tonight is startlingly new—the carved, wooden doors of the theater she stands in front of, the dance performance she is here to watch. (An exchange of Ostanian and Westalian culture after a century comes alive through a spectacle of dance! declares the papers, sensationalizing a future emerging from decades of silent war.) The hundreds of people—rich and poor, old and young, West and East—all surround her in a shared, joyful frenzy. Gold and jewelry and satin dresses float across her vision, all belonging to some giddy figure’s indulgence, all chattering eagerly about a future still uncertain in her eyes. Any uncertainty in the rest of the world is hard to tell—at least for tonight.
Martha is overwhelmed, to say the least.
For the first time in a long while, she allows herself to face her emotions. She is not a wide-eyed twelve year old anymore, nor is she a graying, steel-minded woman, holding to a resigned resolve behind friendly smiles. Instead, she is Martha Marriott, facets of both and neither, the remnants of remarkable and common scars.
The opportunities are far too great to be shadowed by what I used to be, she thinks, and walks past the doors, the tulle of her navy gown brushing the red, spiraled carpet in the foyer.
Like many of the women tonight, her dress is new for the show, though not out of her own insistence. That would be the work of one Becky Blackbell, who despite Martha’s many protests, had taken her and Anya shopping a few months ago and included a piece of finery for her as a gift. ( “It’s extra thanks for handling the brat I was when you were my governess,” she claimed, waving off Martha’s protests on the price. “And you can’t fit into that old black one forever, you know!”)
The material product was never needed, of course, but Miss Blackbell’s kindness during such a tumultuous season for a young heir was admirable, and Martha figured she’d find another time to use the dress. Though she had quite a few reservations about the state of Ostania at this point, she had a feeling that future peaceful events would happen sooner rather than later.
Martha feels too old to be taking pride in her appearance—most of her appeal has faded away with time and circumstance. Yet, she finds herself smoothing down her navy-blue skirt as she weaves through the crowded halls and fixing her braided bun as she goes up staircase after staircase. Finally she enters the theater’s balcony, where she observes people picking their way across the rows of seats on the floor. Red, scalloped wall sconces burn just above her head and the stage is closed from view by a gold-fringed curtain. She finds her aisle number from the remnants of her ticket and sits down, silently pleased at how her dress settles about her ankles.
The theater itself is magnificent: a true blend of Eastern and Western architecture. Martha doesn’t know much about the fine details, and yet she can see something of both in each gilded, sculpted pillar, each curve of the painted mural on the chandeliered ceiling. It’s quite fascinating, how—
“Martha?”
Oh.
“Henry?”
She meets his eyes for the first time in decades—the same comforting, honeycomb-brown she’s remembered all her life. The man’s waist-length hair is in its signature ponytail, a bit thinner and whiter than she recalls. He responds to her voice with a polite nod, giving her a small smile. She glances at his silk waistcoat and notices they’re wearing the same shade of blue.
“What an elegant surprise,” he exclaims, as if they had been old, connected friends all this while. Though she’s entirely aware of life being the opposite, she finds herself softening under his gaze—not quite the blushing schoolgirl, but a sliver of it inside the smile lines that crease her cheeks.
Ever the gentleman, Henry hovers a hand and himself some paces away from the chair next to her. “I hope you don’t mind if I…?”
“Of course not. Sit! I was wondering if I’d recognize another face around here.” That, at least, is a response that springs out of her mind.
“Ahh. Well, then.” He gives her a quick nod and does so, propping up his cane against the right side of his theater seat. A birch one now, she notices, polished and painted to perfection. She hears him let out a deep breath and briefly wonders how close their shoulders are.
She waves the thought away. No one said this night would be easy.
“I must say,” he starts, “that gown on you is simply marvelous. Is it Miss Blackbell’s doing? I’ve been acquainted with her long enough that I recognize some choices from her favorite shop.”
Martha nods and smooths down the skirt, focusing quite heavily on the texture of the bunched-up tulle. “One of her favorites, yes. I suppose she was feeling generous that day.”
“I’m grateful for her consideration, then.”
“Thank you.” She takes a breath, avoiding his gaze. “If you don’t mind me asking, where is Anneliese? Is she feeling alright? I know that an event like this may be a significant amount to handle.”
“Anneliese?” Henry hums. “Unfortunately, my wife passed away a couple years ago. I don’t doubt that she would have enjoyed witnessing such a moment in East-West history.”
“Oh.” Something in her chest bursts like a moth flits through darkness, drawn to a pulsing light. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I appreciate your condolences, Martha. Truly.” Though he lingers over the last syllable for little more than a second, his silence over the matter is sharper than any expressed emotion.
“On that subject, how are you doing tonight?” he asks, lowering his voice and leaning towards her as if they were sharing a secret. “I know this place may not hold pleasant memories. You are free to keep whatever you wish to express to yourself, of course. I know we haven’t been the most…well, the most in touch with each other. However, I figured it would not be elegant of me to avoid asking about your condition.”
(In the midst of the flowery vocabulary and stilted speech, Martha thinks this is the least composed she’s seen him since they met once more.)
She smiles. “Thank you for your concern. It has been a little overwhelming so far. But that isn’t necessarily bad. I suppose I’m grateful that we’ve reached a point where such a thing is possible.” Her mind wanders to olive-green Ostanian glades, to gunshots more constant than changing seasons, to the clawing, desperate feeling of a continually empty stomach, to experiencing the best and worst of humanity. “If I was never allowed to dance in a ballet, or travel the world in a time of peace, or eat in Westalian and Ostanian homes without fear, at least the young people now will experience those things.”
His responding smile takes on a small, wry twist, mirroring her own thoughts in a sense. Even after years of never speaking to one another, never meeting past the occasional student-caretaker conversation or searching for another designer item Becky lost at school, it seems that he can read her well.
“I’ve also found myself thinking that way,” he admits, the wryness in his smile fading to a soft, comforting edge. “It is quite a difficult perspective to maintain, but I’d like to think that the new generations benefit from our altered lives, even if we never see any of those results ourselves.”
“Well,” she answers, “I’d like to think tonight is where those good things begin, don’t you?”
It is worryingly fascinating, how much delight Martha finds in noting the remnants of a love affair that died decades ago, of remembering the picture of a man that died decades ago. She is all too aware of the additional sun-spots on the backs of her old lover’s hands, the weaker volume of his voice, the guarded weight his eyes have yet to be rid of. And yet, she finds she is all too ready to re-discover what makes him Henry once more, if life and loss will let them this time.
She hopes she is not reflecting the folly of youth if she imagines Henry feels the same towards her. Why else would he speak with her so, if not for a yearning for what they had? If the only outcome was a friendship revisited, that would be a delight, for Henry would always remain good company to her. If anything more…well, what would that be but a miracle on earth?
The lights dim. The crowd’s chatter disperses into whispers. Somewhere near the front, the orchestra begins tuning their instruments, mingling notes through the concert hall like the feeling of a velvet curtain.
The curtain parts, and Martha is caught up in the old and the new in a sort of dizzying, fragile dance of her own.
During the intermission of a ballet performance she never thought she’d see, Henry rests his fingertips on her own, and asks her to tea at his home, as the garden they used to meet in long ago has been completely demolished. Renovations, or some such thing, he claims.
“But that shouldn’t stop an old man and woman from catching up, right?” he adds, honeycomb eyes crinkled with fondness.
(A part of Martha wishes she was more surprised.)