The Song of the Dance

THE ART OF MISCOMMUNICATION

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Chapter 6: The Dance

Swiftly, they jogged along the white stone road to the city gate on the southwest side.

Night had fallen when they reached the w bri bridge, the pair stopping to gaze upward into the trees that seemed alive with the light of ten thousand lanterns. A rushing joyful music reached their ears where they stood.

Iarwen turned to Haldir and reached out to adjust his cowl. She lowered the hood of the cloak to cover his face and nothing could be seen of him, neither what he wore nor who he was. “Are you ready?”

“I am.”

“Are you nervous?”

Truthfully, he answered, “I am not.”

“Then let us go.”

Haldir followed now as she led the way over the bridge to the gates where they stood open in this era of peace. The few guards there were vigilant, but this pair was expected, and they passed with welcome and the guards were left behind, plagued with an air of Mystery.

They continued down the empty lane but turned off the main path before the shimmering fountain beyond which the revelry began.

They moved as shadows on the fringes of the excitement, Iarwen enjoying the delights she had not witnessed in countless decades while Haldir kept distant watch over his brothers.

Sitting together on a low flet, the caped figures observed the activities in the welcoming hall where the traditional dance contest was held, storytellers competed, an illusionist performed, and many other amusements were beheld.

Haldir closed his eyes when a brazen horn was blown, shrill and loud, that reverberated among the trees. It marked the mid of night.

At its call, the elves began to drift off, often in pairs. The party grew more intimate as it grew smaller, and the last of the elves – still a great number – began to settle into their seats around the open hall. When Celeborn and Galadriel seated themselves on their cushioned chairs at the hall’s end, the others followed suit: Elrond and Celebrian taking their places of honor to the right and Legolas on the left. Haldir watched familiar faces as everyone followed the silent command. Orophin sat alone, distant and sullenly watchful. Rumil and Glorfindel snuggled together at the foot of a mallorn. Haldir frowned. He’d warned his brothers that they ought to skip the last performance of the night, but they had heard of the Old Way that would be revealed and were, apparently, determined to attend. Haldir chose not to think on Orophin’s uncharacteristic actions; there was more to concern him at the moment.

He fearfully wondered if they would recognize him. He wondered the same of Glorfindel, and of Celeborn and Galadriel, for those three he had known most all his life. He continued to watch as Elrond’s twin sons stood respectfully behind their father, and as Erestor shooed the young Lady Arwen off to bed with her nurse. She was but fifty-nine years old, far too innocent for what was in store this evening. Annaglar of the eastern march lounged on the grass with many other handsome young elves, all entwined together on the grassy glade. Haldir watched with wonder as the ever-gentlemanly Cudae sat near them, flicking longing glances over at Annaglar, who was renowned for his way in the bedroom. Of all the… Haldir hadn’t seen that coming. He wondered… ut tut then a tug on his cloak distracted him from wandering thoughts, and he followed Iarwen down the tree and off into the nearby darkness, watching as she secretly traversed the shadows, throwing bags of herbs to each of the outlying bonfires, inviting a heady, foreign aroma to fill the air, before she stealthily returned to his side.

Haldir’s attention shifted when Celeborn rose, his tall form wrapped in crimson and g S Silence descended as the Lord stepped onto the edge of the tiled floor and spoke. “Friends,” he greeted them, turning to look at Legolas. “Family,” he continued, turning to his daughter and her husband. “Guests. Welcome once more to our Byeltinyeh Feast. On the three-hundredth year of the third age, the Lady Galadriel and I offer for your enjoyment, The Dance.” He took his seat once more, and it seemed the elves all held their breath in anticipation, looking to the only dark patch: the entryway to the circular floor opposite the Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood.

For a moment, all was stillness. Then, a grey-robed figure glided out from the darkness. Slowythmythmic steps silently carried The Dancer to the center of the floor, where a bowed head acknowledged the Lord and Lady and then remained still as stone. Iarwen in her black cape, though now unhooded with long white hair flowing down her back, followed and moved to The Dancer. She inclined her head to the Lords and Ladies and Prince before coming round before the figure. White hands unclasped the cloak, and she moved behind him before lifting away the gray shroud.

The gasps from the younger elves were audible and The Dancer did not watch the expressions of wonder and joy overtake the audience, even as the heavy musk of the aphrodisiac rolled off him in waves to mingle with the strange incense floating in the air.

The pale form shimmered an unearthly gold before the watchers, waist-long hair falling to shield a veiled face, long legs wrapped in pale lilac, bells shining in the firelight. His beauty was, in a word, perfect.

There was no sound, but at the first rising of willowy arms, the first sway of slim hips, the first turn of a painted face, the magic had begun, and all in witness were held in thrall of the movement.

Rumil nearly shrieked when he caught sight of the flashing gold decoration at The Dancer’s chest. His hand fluttered up to cover his open mouth at the sudden recognition, but he kept any words of exclamation to himself.

Then came the sound of the bells, a clanging rhythm, painfully slow as bare feet moved over the creamy clay tiles, hips undulating in a familiar rhythm, setting the bells to singing as raised arms and twirling steps called forth passion and pleasure.

A hawk-like turn of the head sent The Dancer’s hair flaring out in a wave as his volatile gaze caught Glorfindel’s attention. The counselor’s blue eyes widened, seeing past Haldir’s disguise, but he made no other move, except to flash a knowing leer at The Dancer, who - for a flitting moment - returned the expression.

Sinuous movement called forth primal rhythm, a lost tempo taking up residence in every soul.

The arousal that washed over the hall was undeniable. Labored breathing, sudden sweats, hungry gazes… all were directed at The Dancer, the exotic stranger who weaved and swayed and drowned all other sight and sound and feeling in meaninglessness.

Rumil clutched tight to Glorfindel, who returned the embrace.

Firmly did Elrond and Celebrian clasp eacher’ser’s hands.

Elladan and Elrohir cleaved together in a relentless embrace.

Cudae, Erestor, Legolas, and Iarwen watched in lonely mesmerism.

Galadriel felt the Song awaken the primeval urges within her, but she could not help watching the unmistakable connection between The Dancer and Lord Celeborn.

Motionless was the Lord, his face lit with untempered lust, his unwavering gaze fixed on this enchanting Dancer. The inherent familiarity beneath the exotic exterior called to his body and to his heart; he could not refute this overwhelming desire.

And the unknown Dancer, a familiar smirk in place, played to all the audience, but ever did he return his violet gaze to Celeborn, a needful expression on his own obscured features.

Galadriel smothered a gasp. She knew that figure, that seemingly strange being. His smirking expression was unmistakable despite the veil and the paint and air of Mystery. And again Galadriel chastised herself for not seeing what had always been before her.

The Dance strove to draw forth an audience that was already hooked, it it seemed a groan rolled through them when he added the final component to his spell. His low hum, an erotic groaning purr, echoed that very music from the beginning of time, the original Song of lust and frenzy, the Song of sin and delight. This haunting melody, rolling and suggestive, combined with the swaying hips, the clanging chimes, the musky scent, overwhelming those present with sensation.

The thrusting movements, the driving sound of the bells, and the primitive growling voice weaved a work of art that had not been publicly witnessed for over an age as he danced as a turning wheel, and the watchers found themselves lost in all-consuming eroticism.

Within each and every being, blood now flowed in a heated pace, that ancient Song singing in their veins.

And when The Dancer ceased, coming to rest in his original pose, silence reigned once more.


TBC