Dance in Doriath

The sun, still new enough to be awe-inspiring, has set in the west, filling the autumn sky with a glory of gold and orange and purple. An enormous cloud billows up into the sunset, limned with a gold so brilliant it is silver. To the east, the colors fade, shading into blue and then the deepest sapphire, and the first stars glimmer like diamonds set in velvet.

Below, the elves of Doriath are streaming out of Menegroth, to celebrate the last clear days of autumn. Already, the drums are beating, a pulse that thrums through bones. A skirl of pipes soars above them, and other instruments join in. The music is something wild, lawless, untamed.

Elwen has come, for she feels as much at home with the Sindar as the Noldor. They remind her of the early days, before Valinor, or at least Valinor when first they arrived. And yet she is the counselor of Fingolfin and one of his diplomats, so she is dressed finely, despite her protests that the fabric were better used for those in more dire need. She is dressed in soft blues of fine silk-and-wool, from the pale blue of the autumn sky through to midnight. Her hair is twined with blue ribbings set with the freshwater pearls found in Mithrim's lake. She is standing next to a tree, speaking softly to it, somewhat shy

Finrod sits upon a cushion, his feet tapping in time to the music. He watches the drummers intently, his eyes half-closed to his thoughts. There is a round pearl pinning his golden hair, and an belt of enamelled plates with many images, and a simple white robe.

In the middle of the clearing, they are beginning to dance. This is not sedate nor mannerly. There is nothing of gracious courts or elegant formality. This is a dance from before the sun or moon, from when elves danced on the shores of Cuivienen, or in the forests along the great journey beneath Orome's protection. It is, almost, uncivilized.



Many of the faces that flash past are painted in the likeness of birds or fish or animals. Someone not far from Finrod leaps from the dance, and speaks laughing to a tall elf who leans against a tree. There is an answering grin, fierce and exultant, and Celeborn straightens, then is pulled into the swirl, his silver hair flying. As he passes first Finrod and then Elwen, he tries to catch their eyes and motion them into the dancing.

Elwen smiles shyly, then inclines her head half-hesitantly. Then she eases herself delicately into the dance, moving with deerlike grace, and yet there is something reserved about her, as if she is unused to dancing, or too used to holding herself back. But she smiles all the same, her feet moving softly on the ground.

Finrod's gaze is transfixed by the image of the setting sun, his eyes as bright as flame. He does not see the invitations, but he reads the sky as if the Great Journey lay open like a book before him, the dance a procession of the age before the sun and moon.

Whirling around, leaping, spinning, clasping a hand and being reeled on to the next - there is little of reserve about Celeborn. He might be a hawk, an eagle, soaring weightless.

Landing before Elwen, he holds out his hand as the drums speed up and grins recklessly. "Dance with me."

There are others who do not dance - or not yet. Giliath, carrying a flagon of wine, stops beside Finrod. "You do not dance, my lord - would you care for wine?" The vintner's black hair shines like a raven's wing, and his eyes are alight with the music.

Elwen pauses briefly, tilting her head. Then she offers up a gentle smile, and slips her hand into Celeborn's. "I will," she affirms, then whirls around him. A laugh escapes her, surprised, light, more carefree than she can recall in years. "This feels like home," she breathes, a twinkle coming to her clear grey eyes.

"I was deep in thought," admits Finrod, producing an empty glass. "Thank you. It is unlike anything I have heard in the past - what does it mean?"

The Prince clasps her hand tightly and spins around her, laughing. The stamping of a thousand feet hums through the earth like some ancient heartbeat. Raising their linked hands, Celeborn ducks beneath them. "Home," he says when he can find his breath. "Where is that?"

"Home...." Elwen laughs softly. "I suppose I *should* say Valinor, Tirion, to honor my king and former student. But..." She shakes her head. "But I admit I do not love stone cities. The pine woods on the hill, the sound of water, oh, always water. Sometimes I still long for Cuivienen, and it is as much my home as Valinor. Doriath.... holds a little of both."

Giliath fills the glass with wine that is the glowing deep red of the heart of a garnet. He turns to watch the dancers, and (shocking breach of etiquette!) drinks directly from the flask he carries before answering. "It is a celebration," he says. "And a release. It connects us to the earth and sky, to the very stars ... The world is not tame. Listen."

Silent for a long moment, drinking now and again from his flask, the vintner seems to be a thousand miles, or years, away. "Do you hear it?" he asks at last. "A storm crashes on the shores of Cuivienen and the wind and water rage." He turns a smile as fierce as his prince's on Finrod. "It calls us to join it."

"You have breath for talking," Celeborn observes, laughing. "We are not dancing fast enough!" He tugs at her hand, eyebrows raised in invitation. "Of all the places I have been," he continues while waiting, "I love Doriath the best."

"There is beauty almost everywhere," answers Elwen, whirling. "Though I have seen dark to hide the stars, and felt cold to freeze the heart." She shakes herself. "But even on the ice, there was a stark beauty." She shrugs, then kirtles up her long skirts, revealing bare legs and bare feet. "I will know, one day, where my true home is."

Celeborn reaches for her other hand and with only a wicked glint in his eyes to warn her, tosses her into the air, catches her lightly and easily, and swings her around at almost double the speed they had been dancing. Watching, it might be a thing of wonder how the dancers don't collide, as they leap and stamp and whirl and run. The drums pause as if to catch their breath and surge forward, faster than ever and the music fills the air above it, high and clear and wild.\


Elwen gasps, but she surrenders to the toss, then whirls into the turn and picks up her speed as well. Her hair comes free of the pearls, a cascade of velvet black like the night sky. "You... dance... wondrous... well.... " she manages in brief gasps. Yet she matches him step for step, her eyes kindled with a fierce wildness.

It is the music that uplifts them, and the more wild and free it skirls around them, the faster they go, the higher the leaps, the more abandoned the spins and tosses. But one by one, dancers slow and retreat to the sides, and at last, Celeborn does so as well, spinning his partner in what is almost a sedate flourish to stop beside Giliath and Finrod. "Thank you," he says, taking in great gulps of air. "You are none ... too bad, yourself."

"It's been a long time. I'd almost forgotten." Elwen grins impishly. "And I am sure that I would have scandalized a good portion of my kindred." Then she laughs. "It is not good to rise so high that you cannot remember who you were." She untangles the pearl netting from her hair. "Here. It can be re-worked, and would suit you, my lord." She laughs again. "Oh, it is good to dance, and to dance feeling the earth under my bare feet..."

"Thank you," Celeborn replies, accepting the gift. He turns it over in his hands, looking at it, then loops it around one wrist. Grinning at her, he says, "Yes. Come in the spring sometime and join us again."

"If I can, I will. It will depend on my duties to Fingolfin," answers Elwen. She runs her fingers through her hair, laughing again. "Oh, though, I think I need something to drink after that. And oh, it must be beautiful in the spring!"