The Song of the Dance

THE ART OF MISCOMMUNICATION

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Chapter 5: The Plan

For two weeks Haldir had traveled between the bustling city and Iarwen’s isolated home, relaying news and meeting guests and coming back to revel in the peace and quietude to be found in the ancient forest, and comforted by his old teacher. The sun was setting on the eve before Midsummer’s Eve as he trotted uninvited past the border to her land and to the cottage.

Iarwen looked up from a steaming iron pot as he entered. “Welcome back. Have a seat with me by the hearth, Haldir, and tell me your news.”

He nodded wordlessly, accepted a cup of the hot brew after hanging up his cloak, and sat on one of those huge solid oak chairs before the fire. Iarwen soon joined him, an ancient pipe dangling from thin lips. A sweet smelling herb burned in its bowl, wafting through the air.

Haldir curiously wrinkled his nose, sniffing. He could smell ainereg, but also something else. “What is that?”

“Ainereg.”

“Isn’t that what they burn in sickrooms?” he inquired.

Iarwen grinned that calculating smile of hers. “Mmm, yes. It soothes, relaxes…”

“Kills pain,” Haldir finished.

“Yes. But there’s also a bit of dinbrethil,” she admitted.

Haldir shook his head. “I worry about you: be careful with that weed, Iarwen.”

She waved off his concern about the hallucinogenic plant and she smoked while he sipped his drink in silence before she asked, “Well? Tell me of the first night’s proceedings!”

Haldir smiled distantly. It had been the first night of Festival, and it had been an affair to remember. “Yesterday was a fiasco to be sure. The Lord and Lady have surpassed all expectations. Lord Elrond and Lady Celebrian along with their children are simply delighted with everything, but the host from Mirkwood seemed quite overwhelmed.”

“Thranduil did not attend, I know. Who on Middle Earth did he send in his stead?”

Haldir grinned mischievously. “He sent his youngest son.”

“Oh?” she asked with a mouthful of smoke.

“Yes indeed. Prince Legolas is barely older than Rumil, and he has never been to the Wood before, nor met our Lord and Lady. It was quite amusing to watch him wander about open-mouthed at everything. I do believe the elves of Lorien and Imladris are rather more relaxed than those of the north, and he blushed at half the entertainment, as did most of his kith and kin. But really, everyone is having a grand time.”

“Those of Imladris,” she asked, “Is Glorfindel among them? I do miss him so…”

“Oh yes,” Haldir’s grin widened. “Glorfindel is there. I was very glad to see him; we spent some time together today. I introduced him to Rumil.” By now, his grin was maniacal.

Iarwen leant forward in her excitement. “Do tell!”

Haldir laughed. “I had told Glorfindel of Rumil’s sudden interest in the matters of love, as well as his reluctance. This is what transpired: I pulled Rumil from whatever corner he was hiding in and took him straight to Glorfindel, waiting in all his glory in the Midsummer candle grove - to better highlight his features, you understand. ‘Glorfindel, this is Rumil,’ was my introduction, upon which the old elf said nothing but simply smiled and promptly pulled my brother into a crushing embrace, kissing him full on the lips!” The two elves shared in a bout of laughter. “They have not been parted since!oughough Rumil was red as a beet, I believe he’s more than happy with the situation.” He did not add to his story the image burned into his mind of Orophin hanging like a curious vulture from a low talan, spying on this exchange with fearful disapproval.

“Oh splendid!” Iarwen pronounced. “It seems his wheel has turned! I do wish I’d the energy to attend, but our march to the city tomorrow will wear me down enough. What is happening today?”

“Well, yesterday was a time of introductions, meetings new and old. It was a relaxed environment, people going from dr tor to dance to games. I don’t truly know of everything that is happening tonight, but I’ve had it from the seneschal that dinner is less formal, people eating what and when they please, and etcetera. But there is much more dancing and singing tonight; and, I believe, more wine.”

“Then tomorrow is Byeltinyeh,” Iarwen said with a smoky sigh. “It has been so long since I’ve seen a festival… And I suppose everyone knows of The Dance?”

“Aye,” he agreed, smiling no more. “It is only spoken of in whispers. People still fear the Old Ways…”

“And?”

“And they are intent on witnessing it.” Again he let out a heavy breath of air. “Perhaps fear is too strong a word. I trust in Galadriel; if she says that the elves of Arda are ready for this, then I believe her, but still they doubt. They do not understand.”

“But they will.”

“Aye,” he murmured. “They will.”

Iarwen sensed his melancholy. Abruptly, she asked, “If you do not want to perform The Dance, Haldir, why did you agree to do so?”

His turbulent violet eyes looked away from the fire to meet her gaze. “Because my Lady asked it.”

Iarwen nodded in sober understanding. “And you feel you’ve a duty.”

“I have,” he assented. He rose from the chair to pace slowly along the stone hearth before the fire. “My mother would have wished it. She was an excellent Dancer.”

“I wish I could have seen her Dance.”

Haldir nodded absently. “You were right, Iarwen. It is a gift. It is in blooblood… You know, before she left, she said that neither of my brothers had the ability. I never understood how she could know that…”

“Your mother saw many things.”

“Perhaps she did.” He sat again, the fatigue and worry finally visible in his slumping form and in his tired eyes. “I miss her, Iarwen. I do not understand why she went away…”

“The time comes soon when all elves will follow her path. To the Sea. To the West. You will see Feagul again.”

“I will not,” Haldir quietly denied.

Shocked, Iarwen set aside the pipe and knelt before him, taking his hands and peering with searching worry into his solemn eyes. “What do you mean?” she asked in slow, quiet words.

“I did not need you to tell me the future of our people. The elves will leave Middle Earth. I’ve always known this.” He laughed grimly to himself. “Perhaps I’ve a touch of foresight after all. But I will not go with them. I am connected to this Earth, Iarwen. I am connected to it just as I am bound to the ancient Song of The Dance. I will not die, but neither will I leave.”

Terrified at the prospect, Iarwen breathed out a whisper, “But how do you know this?”

Haldir shrugged helplessly, and she saw in him a shadow of the sweet child he had been an age ago. “I just know.”

***

The next day, Haldir woke long before the sun. He bathed in the stream outside, and Iarwen could literally see how he mentally prepared himself for that night’s performance. Any concerns, any normal worries or fears or distractions were shed like an old skin. There appeared about him a sudden center of calm, of resolute focus; a single-minded motivation overtook all else.

He was withdrawn and quiet, though not sullen, and there was an unaccustomed air of power about him when he re-entered the sloping hut in a woolly green dressing robe. Silently, he moved to the well-used kitchen area beside the hearth to prepare a special, secret tea. He sat on the stone floor as he drank, oblivious to Iarwen patiently watching him where she sat in her chair. She was surprised when he suddenly spoke. “You know, the costume my mother made faded to tatters years ago. There is little to be done to dispel the destruction of time,” he quietly mourned.

“Fear not,” she answered. “I have already thought of this.” She stood and retrieved a long wooden box from her room. She joined Haldir on the hearth and set this between them. Opening the hinged lid, she withdrew a shimmering, pale fabric that moved like quicksilver flowing in her hands. “Here now, what do you think?”

Haldir’s jaw dropped and his clay mug was distractedly set aside as he reached out to gingerly clasp the fragile silk between two archer’s fingers with an almost horrified expression on his regal face. “…???… Is it not a bit… risqué?” he finally asked of the brief, transparent cloth.

“Is it not supposed to be?” shot back the answer.

“Well,” he finally conceded, holding the costume up to the fire’s light. “It will leave very little to the imagination.”

***

Within the privacy of his room - the only guest room but also the only place that truly felt like home - he removed his robe and closed his mind, focusing and training his thoughts to the task at hand. He unconsciously hummed an echo of The Dance as he continued his preparations.

A fine-toothed wooden comb blessed with lavender oil tamed his hair into a waterfall of straight flaxen locks shimmering alternately gold and silver in the light. When that was done he reached for a small potion bottle. The musk was an ancient aphrodisiac, but an essential tradition. Using a sort of primitive mister, he applied the perfume in a spray, coating his skin sparingly and careful to keep it out of his face, but he bent over and swished his hair about as he liberally doused his head in the fast-drying liquid. He straightened and set the bottle aside distastefully; the stuff would probably stay in his hair for days…

Next, he reached for a golden powder. Using a brush of bound feathers, he coated his entire body until he shimmered like some ancient god in the candlelight. The golden hue highlighted his skin, seeming to make him glow, and it softened the harsher shadows and angles of his finely toned form.

It was with a quiet anger that he marched to box box Iarwen had bestowed upon him, pulling out three pieces of cloth. It really was most undignified, and he knew Iarwen had not woven such a skimpy thing out of spite; it was merely her idea of humor. The loincloth was not purple, but a dark plum, almost black, and it seemed to weigh nothing in his hands as he *very* carefully situated it about himself before tying the knots harshly in the silken fabric, muttering about slippy, slidey women’s clothes. He looked down at himself regretfully. It covered the important bits. Mostly.

Eagerly did he pull out the pants, but the translucent material wouldn’t hide a thing. He held the trousers to the light; the garment was actually quite fine, and he dreaded to think what its expense might be. The pale lavender gleamed silver and whispered over his skin like a breath of air. Nervously did he clothe himself, but was faintly pleased with the final result once he’d tied the all the cords and straightened the dangling silver trimming.

They hung dangerously low on his hips, just over the flimsy satin loincloth. Slit down either side in some nefarious fashion no doubt meant to titillate, the misty fabric gathered at his knees and again at his ankles with silver ties, creating flowing waves that would accent his movements. Silver embroidery accented the cren inn in swirling exotic patterns along the hemlines and silver tassels hung from his waist and knees in different thicknesses and lengths, giving the costume a bit more character. On many of the tassels hung the traditional brass bells: very small, but very loud and beautiful when under the command of a capable Dancer. Triple bands of these brass bells circled his ankles, and a strap of leather on each foot connected this ancient jewelry to the brass bell at each large toe.

Returning to the engraved box worn with age, Haldir retrieved the traditional Decoration. There was a ring for each finger, and as he slipped them on, he marveled at the perfect fit, and the tiny stone settings and their fine craftsmanship. Brass wrist cuffs there were also - which he considered a mockery of a warrior’s bracers - but he put them on. Brass armbands that hugged his biceps were next. Finally, he pulled out a fine circlet of mithril. He smiled. The filigree headpiece had been his mother’s and he slowly placed this on his head with reverence. It formed a downward point at his brow and hanging from that point was a single pearl-drop diamond.
sideside the last article of clothing was a small velvet bag drawn closed with a silk cord. He opened this indigo pouch and poured into his hand a number of fine jewels. Most were quite small, but there was an exceptionally large blue stone. He might have thought it a sapphire if not for its pale hue, paler than clear winter skies. He carried these over to the dresser where several pots and jars of powders and inks were laid out. He set aside the smaller stones, taking the large jewel and coating one side with a clear paste. He affixed the stone to his navel, holding it in position as the glue quickly dried.

The same paste was applied to the other jewels, which were carefully aligned along his hipbones and above his brows to his temples with the aid of a faded mirror over the dresser.

When this was done, he stood before the poor copper mirror, looking balefully at the performer’s make-up. It had been many years since he’d attempted the paint, but his hand was steady as he reached for the finest brush. Dipping it into the charcoal black ink, he outlined his eyes, drawing out the features and making them seem much larger than they were. A treacherously dark violet was painted onto the delicate skin of his lids. A lighter purple was tinted above that and he then painted the black ink into thin, arching eyebrows. A subtluge uge accented his fine cheekbones and finally, he painted his lips a vicious, bruised red. A light, transparent powder was dusted over his face, setting the paint so that it would not smear or run.

Lastly, he took up the final piece of clothing. This small veil was of the same material as the pantaloons, silvery lavender and perfectly transparent. More silver tassels and embroidery lined the top and bottom and with the utmost care he covered his nose and mouth, the fine silver cord winding over his ears and tying beneath the waves of hair.

He glowered to himself as he looked down, thinking this was probably just about the bravest, most humiliating thing he’d ever agreed to.

***

Stepping out from the room, he moved soundlessly despite the bells, coming to stand before the fire.

Sensing his presence, Iarwen looked up from some embroidery. Her jaw dropped.

Arms crossed, he glared balefully down at her. “What?”

Iarwen swallowed reflexively as she stared at the vision before her. “You will be rousing more than bodies tonight, Dir,” she said. “I foresee several broken hearts if you are not careful.”

Haldir lightened at her response, thinking he didn’t look so dreadful after all. His familiar sneering smile appeared behind the veil. “Let’s hope it does not come to that. …Why *do* you keep staring so?” he asked of Iarwen, still motionless and wide-eyed.

“Why wouldn’t I?” she asked. “Can you not see yourself, Haldir?”

“No. I cannot. Or I do not see what you see.” Curious, he asked, “What am I to your eyes?”

With this, Iarwen stood and took his hand, leading him over to the pale crystal looking glass that stretched up from the floor.

Haldir, too, gulped rather audibly at the sight of his golden form so revealed. “*Very* little to the imagination,” he muttered, seeing how firm muscles flexed minutely under pale golden skin, the veil adding to the mystery of his presence. Indeed, if he did not know himself so well, he would not recognize the reflection. “Will anyone even know me for Haldir the March Warden?”

“I doubt it. You are, for the night, only The Dancer. The Artist. And you will charm them all.” Standing beside him, gazing at that exotic reflection, she revealed, “Sex personified. That is what you are to my eyes. And The Dance will rouse every watcher to previously unknown heights.”

With difficu Iar Iarwen pulled herself away, letting that remark sink in. She turned to the mantelpiece before returning to Haldir’s side.

Looking down, he saw a pair of gold hoops in Iarwen’s white hand.

“They were your mother’s,” she softly explained. “I was not sure…”

“Yes,” Haldir said firmly, watching with detachment as Iarwen cleansed the small earrings and swabbed the same cleanser on the lower lobes of his ears.

Without ceremony, she reached up and quickly drove the small charms through his flesh, one after the other. There was hardly a drop of blood spilt and only a quick prick of pain that faded to a heating ache.

“Thank you,” he said stoically as they again turned to look in the mirror.

Unnerved at the appraising look she gave him, Haldir glared at her reflection only to be taken aback when she grinned, cat-like, at him. “I stare for a different reason this time,” she told him. “Haldir… never in a million years would I have guessed you wore a nipple ring,” said,aid, pointing to the gold hoop that decorated his chest over his heart.

Haldir smiled fondly. “My mother gave it to me when I came into my majority. She said it was tradition. She said it was the token of a true Dancer.”

“In all my studies, I’ve never heard that,” Iarwen marveled. “Perhaps it truly is a Lost Tradition.” She smiled again, an expression of joy and delight. “I see your wheel is turning, Haldir. Follow it well.”

***

Before first light, two cloaked figures - one in black; the other, grey - made their way from the small hut. All day thercherched south, sometimes walking, at others running on the smooth sward, and as the last light of the sun faded, they reached the green walls of Caras Galadon.

TBC