Flame of Gondolin, book 1: Love Story

CHAPTER THREE
Early Spring, 509 FA

With the formal presentation over, Ecthelion offered Anárië his hand. She took it with a smile and they desceded from the raised dias that had been set in place for this occassion. It was time for the traditional first dance of the evening, the 'last' the father would have with his daughter before she would be swept away by possible suitors.

The large area had been cleared, tables pushed back against the walls, and one of the musicians of the house lifted a flute to his lips as the hosts stopped in the middle, facing each other with fond smiles.

Ecthelion took the lead effortlessly, for even though the Noldor were the most fiery of the Elven-tribes they still retained their habits from Valinor. Anárië allowed him to guide her despite the fact that she did not usually enjoy dancing. But tonight was different.

After the first few turns Turgon looked at his son-in-law and Tuor lead Idril to the dance floor; others followed as well, and soon there were many couples dancing. The musicians were playing a well-known composition, 'Tears of Nienna', something the Exiles had brought with them from across the sea. The notes of the flutes sounded as if someone was truly crying, with the harp and violin following in low keys.

It ended with the ladies in one row facing their partners in an exchange of bows.

Ecthelion was the first to applaude, smiling at his daughter.

"Well done, my dear – and now it is time for your father to take his leave."

Something flickered in those green eyes, and Ecthelion wondered whether it was fear; to be reassuring, he smiled broader and touched Anárië's cheek gently, while the guests tried to decide on the next number.

"Fear not, yendenya: you are young, and tonight is yours. Enjoy yourself."

Anárië, who was fighting very much to keep the fear from her face, forced a smile to her lips, her eyes moving to beyond her father's shoulder just as a hand landed there.

Turgon inclined his head towards his friend and the young elleth.

"Ecthelion, I might not be a suitor, but I would still like to ask for the honour of this dance – my lady?"

Obviously relieved, Anárië took the offered hand, "The honour is mine, my lord."

Turgon took her father's position on the dance floor as Ecthelion left, but it seemed the song had not yet been decided.

"The eternal problem of any musician," the King confided in his dance partner; Anárië smothered a giggle, and beside her Idril rolled her eyes with an indulgent smile. Turgon turned towards the musicians.

"The Ride of Oromë!"

Immediately, the lead artist bowed and took up a fiddle, putting his flute to rest. This was a livelier song from the first one, even as the Hunter was more energetic in his life form than the Vala Queen who cried over the fate of Ennor.

The King was a good dancer, and Anárië soon found herself laughing merrily as she took Idril's hand and skipped on light feet, while Turgon and Tuor clapped to the rhythm.

By the time the song ended, she was breathless, with her nerves gone. Turgon had done his friend another great favour, one he would never call recompensation for. He longed, as any king should, for every Elf in his city to know the joys of life. If, by making the young elleth less nervous, he could help, then he would do so without hesitation.

On a nudge, Egalmoth's son Egaith stepped up and took Anárië by the hand, leading her to their circle where she was warmly welcomed by the other offspring of the Lords.

After Egaith she also danced with a number of others, sometimes after they were pushed her way by their wives, sometimes they were brave enough to come on their own. When it was time for the first course, Anárië was thoroughly enjoying herself, something her father noticed as soon as she sat down next to him by the high table.

"Is the evening to your satisfaction?"

She gave him a brilliant smile: "It is, Atar. Thank you." She leaned in and planted a kiss to his cheek. Ecthelion smiled and touched her side, and then the meal was brought to them, mushroom soup with turnip, followed by a leafy bread filled with the first blackberries.

Wine was served in large quantities, always mixed with water; there was also sweet mead, beverage from the honeyed roots of ginger, and numerous other drinks. Anárië and Ecthelion both preferred the strong red vintage of Turgon's personal cellar.

The elleth had calmed her heartbeat down by then, chatting amiably with Idril and Tuor; she hadn't seen the Lord of the Wing in a long time now and catching up was always a pleasure. They both enjoyed each other's company without any fear of gossip, for Idril was Anárië's staunch supporter.

"Pray tell, how is little Eärendil?" Ecthelion's daughter asked, taking a strawberry from a bowl of fruit strategically placed on the table, "I've not had time to play with him in a while now. I hope he won't be too cross with me on my next visit."

Idril smothered a laugh, but her husband's rang loud and clear, "Worry not, Anárië! He is quite anxious to play with you again, I assure you. He keeps getting up at other-wordly hours of the night, asking for you. I was about to beg you to come soon."

Anárië giggled at that, "I will, tomorrow I hope – if I'm able to stand! My legs will surely give in from dancing, and I need all my strength to keep up with that boy."

"We shall tell him to be nice," the Princess said in her gentle voice, although amusement danced in her grey eyes, "but then, you know our son: if he cannot play loudly and lively, he will not play at all!"

"And what a shame that would be!" a new voice chimmed in. Tuor alone had noticed Glorfindel rise from his seat and make his way to them. Anárië's heart skipped a beat without her knowing any reason for it, while Idril simply made a swatting motion towards the Lord, laughing.

"Silence, Flower! You know nothing of child-raising."

Glorfindel fluently bowed, "My apologies ma'am, for indeed I do not; but I do know your son. He is a wonderful child. Do not quench his life-fire."

Idril pursed her lips together to refrain from commenting, obviously wanting to say something in good humor, while Tuor rolled his eyes in a very human gesture:

"Why don't you ask the Lady of the Fountain to dance and give us some peace of mind? The last time you came to us Eärendil took up the notion of trying to wield my sword. I shudder to think what could have happened if one of the servants had not caught him."

Glorfindel was obviously enjoying himself, and the banter they were exchanging was just perfect for his mood: "I did no such thing as plant an idea in his head, Tuor of the Wing, and well you know it! The boy simply takes after his father. But, before I offend you and your lady-wife, I believe I shall take your advice. My lady, would you do me the honour?"

Anárië found her throat dry at that, especially after meeting those sapphire eyes with her own again, but a foot jabbed into her ankle under the table, making her rise so as to not fall back with her chair.

"The honour is mine, my lord."

She cast a glare at an innocent-looking Idril, with her fingers tingling where they touched Glorfindel's hand as he lead her to the quickly-filling dance floor. On the dias, Idril leaned towards her father, who turned to look at what she pointed at, smiling, and gaining Ecthelion's attention as well. Not only that, but most of the eyes in the hall rested on the golden-haired couple taking their polite greetings before the dance.

Anárië felt goosebumps crawl up her arms as 'Winds of Manwë' began to play, a famous romantical balad, but also notorious for the love festival here in Gondolin. Glorfindel's face betrayed nothing, except perhaps a spark in his blue eyes, as he stepped by her and she followed, their shoulders touching in the turn.

"You chose this song on purpose."

She did not make it a question, but instead of a reply she had to content herself with an enigmatic smile as they circled around two other Elves before coming back together.

"And if I have?" he asked, taking both her hands as they turned under, "It is a lovely song; one of my favourites, actually."

Anárië couldn't answer as the dance took them apart again, in the opposite direction, but once back at his side, as he lead her down the length of the floor, she could speak again.

"Is it? I would have thought someone like you would prefer 'The Ride of Oromë', or perhaps 'Aulë's war-cry'."

Glorfindel laughed softly, lifting his arm as she turned under it twice, admiring the way her white gown flared around her, exposing her ankles.

"A common misconception, I assure you; I am not as fierce as they would have me be. Even warriors are gentle souls when times call for it."

They parted again, so Anárië was unable to give a replica. It was a few turns before they stepped close once more, this time in an intricate movement of stepping forward and lifting the arms to cross them with your partner, never touching, and withdrawing to change hands upon the step backwards.

"I did not think gentleness in battle wins a war, my lord," she murmured.

Glorfindel smiled, bringing his hand up, their palms almost touching as they turned slowly. The warmth of his skin so close to her own was palpable.

"It does not; but there is a difference between being a great warrior and a thoughtless butcher."

She stepped forward and to his side, her arm slipping by his lower back so her hand nestled into his own at his hip, and he mimicked the action as they turned, stepping slowly while the flute drew its breaths.

Anárië had nothing to say to that, and the way they turned now made it quite impossible for her to think, as his eyes bore into her own and swallowed her whole. There was no one else around; it was only him. His eyes reminded her of the Sea she had never seen, only imagined. If it would have a colour, it would be the same shade of deep blue.

She had a haunted look, Glorfindel decided as they switched arms, but remained in position and turned the other way now; haunted and innocent. Hopeful. She expected so much of life, of every day after this one. She'd been born in Gondolin's summer, and now it's autumn had descended. The Lord of the Golden Flower caught himself wishing to spare her the sight of its winter.

They parted again, turning on light feet and circling among other dancers before re-joining. She stepped by him, her back close to his chest, as he took her hand and turned them both slowly.

"Alassëa nosta," she heard his murmur, his breath lightly touching her ear as she turned under his arm one last time, and bent her knees into a curtsy, her skirts swirling to a stop as her heart hammered away inside her chest. It was a simple saying, an exchange of words upon one's day of birth. Why did they confuse her thoughts so?

Applause rose suddenly, and Anárië became aware of the room around them again, straightening and joining in, though she spared only a glance at the musicians. Her eyes were still on the tall, golden-haired Lord of the Flower. He did not break the gaze.

Ecthelion came down then.

"My friends! Daughter, it is nearly sunset, and it is time for your gifts before we serve the second meal. Come."

He extended his hand, and she took it after a moment's hesitation, dragging her eyes from Glorfindel and following her father back to the dias, assuming a non-chalant expression, although she felt weak in the knees.

Idril and Tuor came first; the Lady gave her friend a small leather-bound volume of her own poems, while the Lord presented her with a slender white knife in an ornate scabbard. Diamonds and crystal had been set upon it, in honour of her house, and ancient spells woven into the blade.

"It glows blue when foes are close," he said softly, not loud enough for her father to hear, and Anárië understood he did not wish to draw unwanted attention. She thanked him with a kiss to his cheek.

Her other gifts were equally magnificent, ranging from minor details to great things, among them a longbow with a quiver of swan-fletched arrows from Duilin, and the gift was even greater for he had made it himself entirely.

Galdor and his wife gave her a pair of soft boots. It did not seem valuable at first, but Galdor spoke to her ear softly: "They are used for scouting, my lady; mine own and Duilin's men wear these when they travel across Tumladen and within the Encircling Mountains. Should need arise, they will help you travel swiftly and silently."

It was odd, that there was a second gift of such nature, but Anárië did not comment, and she thanked Galdor with an embrace.

Salgant gave her an intricate harp, the sign of his house, while Penlod presented her with a jewelery set of white gold and crystals. Rog did not give her a material gift, but along with golden flowers came the words that should she ever have need of anything, the hammers of his House would always help her.

Egalmoth and his wife brought a mantle forth. "It will keep you warm in cold places," Lalaith said as Anárië fingered the soft material, "and keep as much of weather conditions at bay as it can. And should you pass through shade, it will cover you from unfriendly eyes, especially at nightfall."

She thanked them heartily, but by her count, three mighty Lords had yet to give her a gift; Anárië turned towards her father expectantly. He was standing by Turgon and Glorfindel, and she could savour the moment of watching them together, each magnificent and noble in his own right.

"Anárië, it is time for my gift to you; and since I required help from our King to pick it, it is only fair that he shares in the giving. As does lord Glorfindel, who prepared it for you."

A joint gift then; she smiled, her heart leaping slightly, and her hand trembled when she stretched it towards Ecthelion.

"I would like to see it, Atar."

Ecthelion's smile was handsome as he took her hand and turned her, so they left the main area, followed by Turgon, Glorfindel, and all the others filling out into the courtyard beyond. There they stopped, and Glorfindel slipped by in the shadows, as expectation rose.

Turgon placed a hand on the elleth's shoulder, "Your father picked it, and I chose another when the time came, my daughter, for I thought in the end that it was for the best. Glorfindel helped with the preparations. Are you ready?"

The smile she gave him dispensed any doubt the King might have had.

"I am, Sire."

There was a call, and a neigh, and then Glorfindel lead a stallion forward into the light of the rapidly-failing sun. It was a magnificent animal, large, long-limbed, with a flowing mane and tail, a dusty white colour that dulled in the shade as if to help hide his rider. The stallion's eyes were large and coal black, his nostrils flaring at the sight and smell of so many Elves. His saddle was high, the blanket underneath it patterned with the fountain emblem, and small silver bells were on the reins.

Glorfindel bowed, offering them to Anárië: "My lady – from your father, the King, and myself. May you be safe upon his back, wherever you go, and may his legs carry you swiftly to any destination."

She was smiling so brightly he thought she was going to cry when he straightened again; she'd taken the reins from him and now ran a hand up the stallion's forehead, her lips moving as if she were murmuring soft words. She was in her own world. This gift was by far the greatest of them all, and she could feel her heart swelling with unspoken emotion.

"My lords, I do believe she should ride him around the courtyard," Idril's voice suggested, and when Anárië looked at her friend, the Princess winked.

"I agree," Turgon said, smiling as he looked at the young elleth, "on his back, my lady; you shall enjoy it, trust me."

Anárië looked at her father, as if asking for permission. Ecthelion felt a sense of melancholy, but he put on a smile, "You are your own person now, my dear; I cannot control you anymore."

"You couldn't do much of that before either," someone murmured, loud enough for them all to hear, which sparked a roar of laughter, and the tension eased. Anárië suspected it was Tuor or Galdor.

Glorfindel stepped to her, "May I?"

She looked at him with that big smile and nodded, and he took her by the waist, lifting her effortlessly into the saddle. His fingers brushed her skirt as he pulled away, and she fixed her foot into the stirrup easily.

When she shifted her leg, the stallion flew.

Anárië laughed; the lightest touch, a pressure to the reins or a shift of her weight in the saddle, and he responded, gliding smoothly through walks and into turns. Nothing seemed too difficult for the horse, no order would he disobey. They cantered around the courtyard while the gathered applauded.

A fountain rose in their way, and in one daring moment, Anárië placed her foot lightly against the horse's flanks; he scaled the outer fountain wall and landed in the water, but before anyone could gasp, he was splashing across and clearing the other end, landing on the cobblestones, prancing lightly as she halted him. Water dripped from his legs and muzzle, and from the hem of the lady's dress, but she was laughing still, and her eyes sparkled.

"Gwaiforn," she said, cheeks flushed and breathless as she slipped from the saddle into Glorfindel's waiting arms, "You have given me the North Wind."

Ecthelion smiled; Glorfindel stepped aside as Anárië threw her arms around her father and he wordlessly hugged her close.

Turgon was the first to turn back inside, and following his lead the others left as well, leaving the pair alone. Ecthelion tucked a strand of his daughter's hair behind her ear, and kissed her forehead.

"Come; the feast still awaits us – you shall have more time for Gwaiforn tomorrow."



Yendenya - Quenya for 'my daughter'
Atar - Quenya for 'dad, daddy'
Alassëa Nosta - Quenya for 'happy birthday'
Gwaiforn - the North Wind