Part 5- Childhood’s Over; But The Play Need Not Stop.
A young elf maid stepped into such a blaze of tapers and candles that the hall itself appeared at first to be aflame. What at first glance looked like a confusing mass of hundreds of revellers in a state of bright, gay dress danced, ate, talked, laughed and drank fine elf-wine below her elevated position at the top of a short flight of stairs coming down from a half-hidden entrance. Dressed in a light grey, her hair bound up, and a fine dove-purple scarf over her shoulder, the maid was a picture of simple elegance. If the lack of formality about her dress were obvious, none would notice. Few, if any in fact, noted her arrival, and she preferred it that way. The fewer people to realise that she came from the servants’ area, the better, and perhaps she could discharge this nonsense and get back before too long. Shielding her face with an upraised arm, she drew the scarf a little closer across her breast, a modest dip to the set of her head. She put forth a tiny toe, took a cautious step into the light, and tangling daintily with her own feet, sat down suddenly in the lee of a large wooden pillar. A slight titter caught her shell-like ear, and a flush as red as winterberries galloped into Sil Gathien’s cheeks. She knew it, she just knew it; the whole world was laughing at her! Embarrassment broiled inside, starting tears in her eyes. Looking up, however, she saw that no one was looking at her at all; no one seemed to notice or care. Good. Better. Just coincidence, then. She clambered to her feet and ducked behind the column.
The dress clinched in just about the wrong places, and the shoes were a little too big, rattling on her feet and making her wince delicately. Grabbing a handful of cloth on each side at the base of the bodice, Sil Gathien yanked it down once more, giving a good, inelegant pull with no fear of being seen. A few choice dark mutterings escaped her lips. They had done the best they could in the short time given. A general whip-around for formal wear had produced a few scraps from the maids and stewards, and all might have been lost until Arwen herself swept like a swan in full sail into the stewards’ quarters, causing a flutter of surprise and excitement. She breezed through, dispensing her soft, dream-like smile to those around her, causing even the shyest to blush scarlet and bob a salute. Beloved as Lord Elrond’s gentle daughter was, there were some in the servants’ quarters who wondered at the source of her habitual calm, and her contrasting elemental joy at music and dance. There were whispers that the healer perhaps spent too long in her room of burning herbs and bubbling liquids… Sil Gathien laughed off such rumours. What rot! Like any well brought up elf maiden, Arwen took the dignified, ladies’ choice: a furtive herbal constitutional behind the storerooms. Sometimes in the past, Sil Gathien had been allowed to partake with the older girl, and had felt very honoured to do so. Afternoons giggling and gossiping had helped to forge a bond with her mistress and Lady that was repaid at the oddest of moments.
Like now. Draped over Arwen’s arm was a gown of soft material. A slightly older design in pearlescent grey, the gown had dropped like a gift from the Ancients. Arwen had judged that a very new gown would draw unwanted attention to her friend, and had wisely provided a subtler variant. Unfortunately, Arwen was taller and a little slimmer than Sil Gathien- a hasty hemming prevented the gown from flopping a ridiculous length behind her, but the bodice had a tendency to ride upwards. Arwen’s feet were also a little bigger, so wads of cloth made hasty fillers for the simple slippers.
She still felt a little like the dressed-up, slightly mouldy apple in this barrel of pedigree company. Well, she owed it to Arwen and Lord Elrond at least to make an appearance. Jutting up her chin in a defiant pose, pulling up her underskirts and re-arranging her modesty, Sil Gathien made a second attempt at a halfway dignified entrance.
This time she made it into the hall, and drifting slowly across the floor, nodding polite greetings, and garnering a few comments in her wake, she passed in a good semblance of grace towards her Lord, who conversed in his own brand of frowning humour with Lord Haldir, now much refreshed. The Lorien Lust-object was dressed in a tunic of more than passing finery; a soft calfskin jerkin of delicate blue-green, embroidered with an emblem of a spreading tree bearing a crescent moon, a symbol of the High Elves. If anyone doubted his pedigree, they could scarcely refute the evidence of their own eyes, for Haldir stood tall next to Elrond, and his hair, pulled back behind his ears and hanging in a golden flow over his shoulders, seemed to radiate inner nobility. At that precise moment, animated in conversation, his face more closely resembled a drunken caper, as he attempted to describe for Elrond just how excruciating a horse could be.
Bobbing a curtsey to Arwen, who winked back, Sil Gathien waited patiently to be presented to Lord Haldir. A quick greeting, then she could be out of there.
… All right, a quick dance- just one- then she’d be out of there. Whatever had possessed her? Spinning in Haldir’s sure embrace, she didn’t know what would give out first- her neck from being cricked back to see him properly, or her feet in the shoes. He just had to go and flash that smile, didn’t he? Use that leaves-in-autumn voice and make her go gooey enough to agree. Lord Elrond had thought it a marvellous idea, and had there been just a glint of evil laughter in his eye? The old codger had a wicked sense of humour when he wanted to. Witness the hedgehog incident. That reminded her- when she got a chance, she must corner Hall’orth and tell her to make sure that there were no rodents of even slightly amusing properties present anywhere near the hall at the end of the feast. With the wine flowing as freely as it was, it might be better to prevent more ‘incidents’ before they started.
Haldir certainly had been enjoying Elrond’s hospitality. He has seen Sil Gathien’s initial entrance, and had watched with impressed amusement as the girl had gathered herself up and started again. There was spirit in the little one, and a sense of being really alive that he had not encountered in many elves in his life. The problem with having such a long life was that Elves could get very staid after an era or five. To touch such a spirit could be a heady, remarkable experience, and Haldir was enjoying the contact to the fullest of his senses. “You are remarkably light on your feet, my lady” “I am thinking light thoughts, my lord.” “Do you come here often?” “That is an old line, my lord, even by immortal standards.” “Sorry.” “S’ok.” Much of the dance then passed in slightly strained politeness. Sil Gathien came to a compromise, and easing her neck gave his collarbone her full attention. Haldir made do with the view over her head, while admiring the soft shine on her hair. The feast was turning into a rather fun distraction. A young girl in his arms who seemed to think the world of him- even if not his one-liners, dancing, wine, the promise perhaps of night games later on…Haldir mentally slapped himself for thoughts unbecoming to a gentleman. Well, he admired her, why should he not think such thoughts? Not noble, perhaps but natural, only natural.
A few levels down, and Sil Gathien’s evening was going from bad to worse. First that clumsy entrance; a bad omen if ever there was one. Then Lord Elrond’s ‘suggestion’ that she dance with Haldir. The inevitable whispers and attention from the surrounding company as to who was dancing with the most eligible bachelor there irritated her, and the wine she had gulped down to steady her nerves just before they hit the dance floor was souring rapidly in her stomach. And now, just as the dance was ending, the music flowing seamlessly into a more energetic jig, Haldir was holding her hands and making puppy-dog eyes and asking her to dance once again. One more, just one more… the shoes were reaching a critical state of wobble, and her toes were tired from scrunching up inside them to hold them in. her bodice was threatening to ride up again, and she was sure she looked as flustered as she felt. She turned once, as if seeking support. She spotted Hall’orth, but a small party for the tray of nibbles she carried was snagging her and took her in the other direction. Arwen looked faintly anxious, but was too far way to intervene. Elrond simply raised a glass in their direction, and even Legolas- a last resort indeed- was nowhere to be seen. Panic set in, but fate had decided for her, and Haldir already had her bodily in a firm grip, jumping to the jig. She had to keep up or get trampled, so she made the best of it she could. About halfway into the number, and she beginning to tentatively feel that perhaps things wouldn’t be so bad. The music was claiming her heart and she couldn’t help but feel uplifted by its cheering rhythm. The band were certainly giving it everything they had, and the floor was a whirl of flying bodies, the elves abandoning their rather more formal countenances in favour of the hyperactive cedillah; jumping, leaping, flinging and generally having an excitable time of it. As the knots inside her relaxed, Sil Gathien allowed a bright smile to emerge, which transformed her face and lifted her expression. Haldir smiled back, and they turned and turned again in the very centre of the spinning congregation; the eye of the storm. The very last measure was coming up. This required the male elves to lift and throw and catch their partners- a mere nothing for Haldir, so much bigger and stronger than she. Round, round, pause, run, leap-! And tragedy struck.
She felt it happen instead of seeing anything, it happened so fast. First from her left foot, then her right, the treacherous shoes, finally deciding that they no longer wanted to be a part of the evening, made their exits- in opposite directions and at high speed. There was a trail of surprised exclamation as lightning reflexes prevented any serious injuries being inflicted, and the shoes flew, unhindered- one to land splash in a bowl of wine punch, the other with a sickeningly wet ‘spluch’ in a potato salad.
The band, as if cued in telepathically, had halted playing just about instantaneously.
There was complete silence. In the distance, a cricket could be heard chirruping.
And everyone was staring.
Then the sniggers started.
Sil Gathien suddenly found herself very alone in a large group; her face flushed an unbecomingly sweaty red, the bodice riding up about her hips once more, her hair disarrayed, and shoeless. Right in the centre. Haldir had caught her and gently lowered her, but was now having difficulty keeping a straight face. In mute appeal, she turned to Elrond, but his eyebrows were dancing a merry jig of their own, desperately trying to maintain his usual stoic expression while he fought down the giggles. Arwen looked shocked, but had to hide her mouth behind her hand. Hall’orth was nowhere to be seen. Mellorn, however, could be seen- smirking openly at the kitchen entrance, smirking straight at Sil Gathien. Silently, shaking with mirth, a pair of maids presented her with the ruined shoes. She took them silently, the weight of the crushing embarrassment bearing down on her as an unbearable heaviness crammed upon her shoulders. Sink or swim. Fight or flight. Now or never.
The titters grew louder. Haldir’s shoulders shook. Elrond’s eyes watered with the effort of restraint. Outright giggles began, and flowing from the back of the room, swept forward, engulfing her.
She raised her head and her eyes flashed with fire, a fire of rage and embarrassment and pure self-realisation.
“Yes, laugh. Go ahead, laugh. Laugh at the little moppet dressed up for the ball. Laugh at the venison dressed as fawn. Laugh, and show your ungentlemanly behaviour, laugh and show you are no ladies. I came upon the instigation of two high lords of Elvin-kind. I had hoped to come to a feast of noble proportion. I see that I was mistaken. Very mistaken, indeed. Goodnight my lords.” The giggles had slowly subsided into an awkward moment. Though speaking clearly in little more than an even tone, Sil Gathien thrust aside the waves of derision and, holding the shoes tight to her bosom, drew herself up into an untouchable image of restraint and majesty.
The laughter finally completely died into a silent, empty hole.
“I have seen more nobility in the poorest houses among men.”
Turning to face the doors leading straight out onto the portico and into the night, she set her chin high, her back straight and walked deliberately from the room. By some miracle, she managed not to cry until she was some distance from the hall.
Haldir had not been the only one to see her first entrance an hour or so previously. Lurking somewhat sulkily in the shadows of the great external doors, thrown open to the mild night air, Legolas had watched at first with concern as she slipped and fell upon her dignity. Then he watched with admiration as she gathered herself up and tried again. He might then have stepped forward; he might even have accosted her and in a strange fit of festivity-induced madness have complimented her on how fine she looked. But she had gone straight to Lord Elrond, who had given her to Haldir as a dancing partner, and Legolas had melted back into the shadows, surprised and confused by the dark feeling on his heart as he watched her enjoying the dance with her handsome partner. The feeling had thawed into a quiet delight as he saw how happy she looked during the jig, and he had watched shocked and dismayed when her shoes had let her down so spectacularly and caused her deep shame. He had left when she did, padding behind her in the dark. When he heard her begin to sniffle, he hung back, and merely followed behind, a silent, loyal shadow. When she stopped he realised that she had run straight back to the tree where they had climbed and met Haldir only that morning. She sat on the lower limb once more, and leaning against the trunk as a child leans against its mother, she cried, really cried. It seemed like she was making up for lost time, for a hundred hurts and slights bitten under her lip, stored in the great chambers of her heart.
Watching her in the moonlight, Legolas thought his heart would break, but he left her be, gave her the space she wanted. Besides, if he disturbed her now, she might bite his head off; better that she get it out of system now. He waited, an unseen and sympathetic witness. At last she sat straighter, drying her eyes on the purple scarf, now wrapped in a knot about her wrist. Then he stepped forward.
“Lovely sight.” He kept his voice gentle, but teasing, easing into the banter they felt most comfortable communing in.
“Yeah- runny nose and red eyes,” she sniped back.
“A very cute nose, though.” The softness of his voice and the sincerity behind the comment caught them both off-guard. There was a moment of embarrassed shuffling. In the distance, the sound of music could be heard again. Sil Gathien threw it a dirty look.
“What else should they do, Sil? Mope all night under a tree?”
She transferred the glare to the prince, adding extra annoyance to its already impressive wattage. He made fending-off gestures.
“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger just because he brings some measure of truth, here. Anyway, I expect Arwen has got it going again with smooth words and politic sweetness, and without embarrassing you further” Legolas soothed, walking over to lean casually against the limb where she sat.
Glancing back, Sil Gathien saw him, and, perhaps for the first time, really saw him. Legolas seemed caught in a similar situation. Elves by moonlight are when they are at their best, and both seemed to be seeing the other for the first time. She saw a strong, slim young elf, his hair completely unbound from the warrior-plaits he had begun to sport so proudly only recently, falling over the white shirt and pale red jerkin in a silver stream. A singlet lay on his brow, the formal mark of his princely status. Under the moon, his blue eyes looked black; wide, deceptively innocent pools of wonder, and his hands, held loosely before him, looked fine, white and slim. He saw a burning heart, a soul so bright it was blinding, in a small body wrapped in a dress a little too small and a little too large for it, the hem hanging down here and there where it had snagged on branches, her bare feet hanging beneath. And her pale face wore shadows of secrecy, the eyes liquid pools of night, surmounted by what looked at first to be a bird’s nest of tangled hair.
Grinning, he reached up tugged playfully at the matted strands. She threw out an exasperated noise, and when she would had busied herself undoing and re-tying the temperamental locks, he silently and calmly unfastened it for her, running his fingers through it and removing the worst of the tangles, setting it as free as his own. She shook it out and the silver streaks glinted in the moonlight. Looking up, suddenly shy, through her lashes, she caught him gazing at her thoughtfully.
The moment was unprecedented.
As if to break this unknown feeling, both suddenly became very interested in the night, their clothes, anything else. “Clear.” “Yes. Mild.” “Nice weather tomorrow.” “Yup.” “Nice jerkin.” “Thanks. I would return the compliment-” “- But I look like a chair loosing its stuffing. I know.” “I wouldn’t say that- more of a bundle of washing, perhaps.” “Charming.” “Y’welcome.”
Conversation died to a halt. “Actually-” “Well, shouldn’t we- ”the duel expostulations startled them, and they fell instantly silent, she fiddling silently with her scarf, eyes glued downwards, he rubbing his hands together, looking upwards, as if seeking strength for something very brave. “Sorry-” “Please, you-” They smiled at the repeated interruption. “After you.” “Well, er, actually, I really came to give you something, er…” he now began searching his breeches and jerkin, seemingly at a momentary loss.
“Oh yeah? More insults? Sorry, my lord, I have had my fill of that this evening, and I think I’ve had quite enough a fool of myself to last a very long time, thank you.” She had snapped a little more than she intended. Something was wrong with her head, it was all messed up and her thinking was fuzzy. Something to do with wine, dance, a great emotional distress, a beautiful night… retreating to what she knew best, Sil Gathien threw up her defences once more and pitched in for what she could relate to best, especially with Legolas; a fight.
“I didn’t’ come to fight.” His voice was very quiet, slightly tense as if he was making an effort not to take the bait. She ploughed on, unhearing, unheeding.
“Well, maybe I did! Yeah, maybe I need a fight, and you’d better bloody well give me one, ’cos you weren’t even there, an’ the least you could do was show a bit of solidarity, after all the stuff I’ve done for you- ok, all the pranks I’ve pulled on you- least it shows I’m thinking of you, least you could do was think of m-m-me-” her voice was becoming choked again, and tears welled up once more, an angry, miserable ache in her throat, more angry at her loss of composure again than over any imagined or real sleight.
“I have been. I saw you enter, I watched you dance; I didn’t tease you; I didn’t laugh when the slippers decided to leave before you. I have thought of nothing but you tonight.”
Sil Gathien deflated at the reproach, and quailed a little at the simmering irritation. There was something new here- a new territory within the ego, a place more vulnerable to irritation and attack. Already rapidly becoming over-wrought, she was ill quipped to deal with this new situation, and when she would have started up again as best she could, heading deeper in a potential disaster, he saved her and forestalled the possibly friendship-shattering snipe that was gathering on her tongue with a gesture.
“No. Enough.”
She suddenly felt very small, and in the presence of a real prince, exerting very real, very demanding and very absolute authority. Now all the lines were gone; the usual map of a fight, of a prank, of youth, was disappearing, dissolving under the moonlight. This was something else, something new and actually pretty scary. She dropped her stare to her hands, twisting her fingers and wrapping her feet together in a defensive gesture, trying to grow smaller, a subservient gesture, fresh tears threatening to fall.
“I don’t want to fight, I don’t want old games. Games are over, Silith, they were over the moment you entered that hall. You know that- you felt it in the deep shame you suffered. We used to be children, tumbling, unheeding in the crib of this forest, but the shadows have drawn closer, and we have to stand up and take responsibility now. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to lecture, either, I just- Lord Elrond told me today that the light is under attack; from age, from fear, from evil- oh, I didn’t mean to say that, either, this isn’t going as I wanted at all, I didn’t get a chance in the hall, I’m ruining the chance now- oh, bollocks!” he had be pacing, gesturing with his hands, a frown wrapping his forehead. She lifted her head a little, surprised as the frustration in his voice, even more so at the obscenity.
“I just wanted to give you this.” His voice emerged as a soft sigh of almost-desperation; a paean for lost childhood, a realisation that adulthood was quite possibly really beginning tonight, right now. A silver something dropped into her line of vision, something she didn’t at first see. Then drawing back a little, blinking away the tears, she carefully took the dangling object from his hand, and only then realised that he’d leapt up to sit beside her without her even noticing, so wrapped in her own private distress was she.
The object glinted in the moonlight. It was a dancing figure, its arms thrown upwards in joy, a scarf whirling from its waist and flowing in a circular motion around it, caught forever in the moment of ecstatic triumph, immortalised in Mithril. It hung on the end of a deceptively delicate chain, strong yet fine. Legolas continued, his voice soft and now more even.
“I wanted you to have this as soon as I saw it. It comes from my mother’s family, actually, and she showed it to me the last time I visited home, but I never found a good time to give it to you; we’re always joking and sniping, and I wanted to give this to you properly- really properly. The feast tonight I thought would be the perfect time; a formal occasion, on best behaviour, a fine evening… but you got hoodwinked by the Lorien Lecher, and I saw you having such a good time, I didn’t want to spoil it, but…”
He took the chain from her, and fastened it about her neck, brushing aside her hair gently. She shivered when his fingers stroked her neck.
“…I knew this was for you more so tonight than ever. That is you, that figure. That is the spirit I saw when you danced, and still she burned brightly when you had the little accident and left with such dignity. I admire you, Sil Gathien, I always have. I always will.”
Sil Gathien was examining the unexpected gift in amazement. She looked up, startled at the catch that sounded in Legolas’s voice. She wanted to deflect the direction this seemed to be going in, so she tried a spot of lightness, and squinting at him in a semi-accusatory manner, she tried, “This looks suspiciously like a bride gift, your highness.”
Legolas managed a grin, and she inwardly cursed, realising that she had only vocalised what was most obvious, given his declaration only moments ago. Then he became all serious, and forcefully gazed at her.
“Well, maybe it is in a way. It’s me showing you that I am your friend and you are mine- always.”
“Er, Legolas, why are you looking at me like that.” “How much wine have you had?” she asked, suspiciously, sliding a little further away from him. He laughed softly. “Maybe just enough to go to my head. We wood elves do like our wine!” His smile dropped into the serious, penetrating stare once more. “But not enough to make me not realise what I am doing.”
“Legolas, why are you moving closer?”
“I like moving closer.” “It brings me closer to you.” “Legolas! Aren’t I your friend?” “Always.” He was very close, now. “Lell’ias, tell me it’s the moonlight, the stupid night, anything!” He smiled. “Maybe it is.”
And he kissed her.
It lasted for as long as it lasted, no more, certainly no less. A world could have been born and died in the duration, neither would have noticed or cared.
Both were equally surprised.
“Er, oh.” Sil Gathien sat up straighter, shaking her head slightly as if to relieve it of some strange influence. Legolas sat up looking shocked, and strangely satisfied. There was shuffling and fiddling with clothing.
The music played on. Hearing an opportunity to dispel the somewhat suddenly awkward situation, and a little scared over what had just come over him, Legolas leapt off the limb and held a hand up to her. Sil Gathien did not at first see him, as she was staring into space, her hand closed over the Mithril figure now lying on her chest. Then she saw him patiently waiting. “What?” “Come dance.” “Here?” “Come dance with me.” “Er, ok.” She leapt down beside him, but winced as she landed. “What’s wrong?” he sounded anxious. “My feet. I didn’t realise how rough the way was here, I didn’t notice, when- ow!” “Aww, poor feet. Wait, I have an idea. Stand on mine.” “What?” “Stand on my feet.” “Are you crazy?” “Just do it, Silith.” “Ok, Ok.” Grumbling softly, she climbed onto his feet, taking his shoulder and hand, supported by his other hand on her waist. He started moving, stepping slowly to the music, gradually building up to the right speed, as she grew accustomed to the odd sensation of literally being danced away.
He didn’t see her face at first. Then he felt her shaking slightly.
“What? What is it?” “Nothing bad, but, bleedin’ heck, Lell’ias- this is daft!” He grinned. “You’re dancing on the toes of a formally reprimanded prince in a dress that’s too small for you under the moonlight in a forest clearing where you stuck the prince to a tree today, after possibly the wildest, classiest exit ever- and you think it’s just a bit daft?!” Her giggles increased. “Was it really that classy?” He pulled a serious face. “Definitely. Classiest I’ve ever heard of- and you have to admit it, it was funny!” “nghtytedbfnrf” “What? Do my ears deceive me, or is she speaking? Is she, is she?” With a great grin Legolas punctuated each question with a playful poke in the ribs. Sil Gathien would have fallen had he not held her safe, laughing so much as she was, tickled into submission. He dropped his head and blew a silly noise against her neck, and she laughed louder, until the clearing rang with it. He pulled his head back, squinted at her and grinned. “That’s better, that’s more like my Silith.” “Codlings” “Same to you!”
She wiped her teary eyes with the back of her hand and grin-glared up at him. That set them both off, and whooping and running, they galloped from the glen, shrieking their freedom and happiness to the moon hanging far above, a silent witness to the summer madness of friends.
There was a pause, as the sounds of their retreat grew fainter and fainter, heading in random circles roughly towards the palace complex. The glen settled back into a measure of calmness, silence descending and the air laying a cooling breeze over the previous scene of high emotion. A small creature snuffled into view, poking its snout into a few loose leaves and roots.
A soft footfall slipped across the clearing. The boots attached to the sound were highly crafted dark leather. The breeches a deep blue, the jerkin the same colour, worked in golden thread across the collar and shoulders. A long cloak swung to the heels of the boots, as the tall figure stooped to scoop up the abandoned shoes. A face accustomed to habitual sternness examined them briefly, lengthy dark hair swinging down the man’s back and across his cheeks. A complex silver metal circlet wrapped his brow, and his expression softened as he lifted his gaze and stared in the direction of the whoops and shrieks.
“That’s more like it. Much better.” Lord Elrond of Rivendell smiled into the distance, his face lifted for a moment from care and responsibility as he seemed to remember a similar moon-lit night many, many years ago, when an Elvin maid of surpassing loveliness and a then much younger half-Elvin noble played similar games under the strange, unfathomable influence of the heavenly body above.
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