Word Count: 506

During those hours when she remained unchained but lacked a visitor, when the questions finally ceased and the beatings were put on hold, Ganymede took to dancing.

The cage was not large enough for any dramatic leaps, but it offered her enough space to stretch and turn. She took off her boots and danced instead in her torn hose, drowning out the distant screams with the music in her own mind. She spun around and around on her toes and the balls of her feet, her tattered train whipping about behind her. Her eyes were unfocused as she moved, and when she hummed along to the tune in her head, her voice was quiet and feeble in a throat abused by screaming and repeated strangulation.

Sometimes, when her captors grew especially tired of her, they did not even take the time to shove her back into her cage, but left her where she remained—bruised and bloody on the floor. It mattered not whether they caged her up or left her free; the door to the room was always locked.

She danced under the dim lights when they were left on. When the lights were switched off, she danced in the darkness; she knew her way around the room well enough. In any case, there was nothing there to trip her up, for it was nothing more than a square room with a cage upon a dais in the center.

She danced a variation for each friend who was lost to her. Her steps were precise, her movements fluid.

One for Ladon, whose fate Ganymede mourned more than her own.

One for Cyllene, troubled and lost, led astray by the darkness.

Pirouette after pirouette she turned, dancing through her weakness with the energy of her anger and frustration.

She danced a variation for each of the her allies.

One for Acrucis, wherever she was in this hell.

One for each Senshi and each Knight in captivity; a solo for each of their screams.

One for those she might never see again—Europa, Pasiphae, Kallichore; Ida, Auriga, and Babylon.

One for the faces only now becoming familiar to her—Athene, Amphitrite, Nyx; Callisto, Leda, Horatio and Tomlin.

She danced a variation for her family. For a father who passed too soon, and a mother who carried too much guilt. For a little sister who'd grow to have no memory of her, and a cousin whose forgiveness she'd not yet earned. For Momma, Beau, Peter, and Michael, a second family to join the first.

She danced a variation for Valhalla. Her arms fluttered about like wings, light and graceful as her feet worked across the floor. In it she expressed all of her dying hopes, and all of her unceasing love.

Fouetté after fouetté she turned, filled with an energy and a passion her captives put so much effort into stripping from her.

When she was done, when the fatigue became overwhelming and her vision darkened around the edges, Ganymede collapsed to floor, put her head into her hands, and breathed.