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.