1.)
An androgynous shadow is perched within the boughs of an elm, and in its eyes reflects the archaic, flickering glow of the lanterns beneath. A hand reaches from the gloom, and a pair of fingers pluck a single, azure feather from the crook of a branch. He brandishes the fallen token between scarred fingers.
"Teron, come down from there!" an elleth's voice calls, and from the shadow of the tree blooms the form of an elf. He peers over the side of his refuge to look at his sister, who is garlanded in an intricate gown of blue silk and wildflowers.
An unsightly pout mars the perfection of her glowing array.
"Tis' my Begetting Day, Teron. You promised me that you would dance this night,"
With feline grace, Teron leaps from the tree and lands before his sister. The proud brother places the Jay feather behind her ear, pulling forth one of her perfect curls in exchange.
"For you, my Lady. To compliment your indomitable radiance," he says, staring into her glassy eyes as he lays a kiss upon her fingers.
The youth beams at her brother. That is, until she notices the ring adorning his finger.
2.)
"You were supposed to destroy this weeks ago, Teron," Feleth says, her nails suddenly piercing the tendons of his wrist.
"I cannot bring myself to do it, muinthel," he whispers, his words faltering.
Feleth sighs. "You know that I despise it when you talk so. Can you not take it off tonight?"
Teron grows warm at the thought of what that might imply. He turns his head to the sound of the drums and viols now playing in the nearby glade. All evening, he has listened to the merrymaking of those attending his sister's dance. Every laugh or exultation that fell upon his ears was like a chill spear to his sore heart.
He turns back to look at his sister, and he realizes that the flowers braided into his little sister's hair are of the same kind that he tossed into his betrothed's grave.
"For just one night, Teron. It is springtime, brother. The time for new beginnings,"
Teron takes one last, furtive glance at the ring. With a violent jerk, he pulls it from his finger and places it in the pocket of his breeches.
On this night, he swears that he will forget.
3.)
He catches her hazel eyes from across the glade. She smiles coyly, raising a goblet to him as he twirls by. Intrigued, he swears to return to ask her name, despite the cold warning in his heart.
In his arms is a rather drunk elleth. Her breath reeks with the cheap meed that his parents have been distributing amongst the older guests. He himself has partaken in a good bit of it. So far, the liquor has drowned out his grief.
When at last Teron grows weary, he deposits the unfortunate elleth into the arms of another dancer.
Teron downs another glass of mead, and having forgotten his previous promise, he steps out of sight behind the glow of the many lanterns.
He glances up at the moon, sighing out as a breeze bathes his face in the cool panacea of night.
"I miss you," he thinks, his breath slowing to match the ebbing rhythm of the musician's drums. He has danced for hours, and in those moments, he had managed to forget. But before the foresight of the stars, his heartbreak is reborn.
As a tear falls down his face, a hand is forced into his.
4.)
Teron turns at once, and finds himself looking into the same pair of seductive eyes he had fallen in to before. He steps back, but the elleth matches his stride.
"Who...?"
A single finger falls onto his lips.
"Dance with me," she murmurs, squeezing the hand she has been keeping captive.
Teron is perplexed, and also blinded by the stunning temptress now before him. He is not sure whether it is liquor or lust now searing through his veins.
He makes as if to lead her towards the dance circle, but she holds fast. Though she lets go of his hand, she ensnares him with her eyes.
Arms raised to the sovereign moon, she spins once. "Here, beneath the heavens. Dance with me,"
His eyes follow the curves of her lips, down the snowy contour of her neck, and to the chain of daisies that falls from one shoulder to the opposite hip.
Though he has no notion of who she is, Teron is drawn to her. For she, in her ethereal beauty and infectious confidence, is irresistible.
Though the ring lies heavy in Teron's pocket, his attention has been thrust elsewhere.
This night, he shall dance.
5.)
The musicians have long since packed away their lyres and pipes. But the woodland's elegant song still whispers through the night, laying the canvas on which two young elves continue to paint their unspoken emotions.
It has been many months since Teron has held a maiden as he now does. The nameless elleth is so wondrously close to him. The scent of her mahogany hair washes over him, filling his every pore. Her touch, shared with him through small strokes to his face or squeezes to his fingers, awakes a long slumbering passion within him that he had nearly forgotten existed. And her voice, now and then sounding out to grace the blessed stillness with song, leaves him breathless.
He is tempted, so very tempted, to fall forward into her and not resurface. To be smothered by her smoldering eyes would be far less grievous a fate than the guilt he fears he will suffer later.
Yet, he wonders what it is that he is supposed to feel guilty about.
For the bitter void within him had been born nearly a year ago. Has he not suffered enough?
The better question may be this: Why should he suffer any further?
6.)
He leans towards her, giving into the magnetic vice that has held him to her through the night.
When at last Teron brushes his lips over hers, he finds that there is a fragile smile awaiting him. Her mouth parts, and as he claims her, her sweet breath falls into him. He is consumed by this fragrance, her vibrant essence, and it fills every inch of his pulsing heart.
In the fraction of a moment, she whispers to him. "Lainloth. Tis' my name,"
Teron is stilled for a moment, and he lays a kiss upon her brow before he moves to murmur his own epesse in her ear.
And though these tidings become the only true knowledge they have of each other, they cling to this as if it was the answer to every riddle in the universe. The exchange of a single word becomes the knot on which their souls begin to weave.
Swathed now by the cloak of dark, they melt into one another. Beneath the unfurling leaves of the re-awoken trees, they begin to fuse into a single entity. About them, Mirkwood ignites, quickening its once frozen pulse.
And at last, gloriously, his broken heart thaws.
7.)
If they had not been so lost in their wanton bliss, they might have remembered the dangers of walking the forest at night. Teron himself has seen the ferocious beasts, the behemoth monstrosities that have earned the fitting term 'Giant Spiders'. He has felt their foul breath upon his back, heard their uncouth hisses. He has watched many warriors fall before such titans.
But he does not recall them, nor any other information that may have been deemed vital. Neither does the maiden lying beneath him.
For it is not in the nature of youth to know the meaning of the word 'fear'. And fearlessly, these two -still infants in the eyes of the Valar- descend into an ancient art.
Among the soft nocturne of the forest is born a new harmony. The rhythmic undertones of two voices intertwine with the calls of restful animals and the chiming of the wind. Teron and Lainloth cry out in tandem, and their erotic moans fade into the greater, starlit symphony.
But as they press on, they begin to compose a separate song entirely. Their sonnet gains the strength to stand alone, and the forest grows silent as it embraces their ambitious solo.
8.)
A vibrant crescendo builds into an unfaltering summit of sensation. And when at last the two lovers fall over and through the very heart of the word 'bliss', the forest resumes its ballad.
In the denouement, Teron and Lainloth breath in deep the night's air.
Replete, Teron turns to lay beside the maiden. Adjacent to him, he finds her sash of blossoms. The petals have been crushed and the braided stems broken, perhaps beneath the weight of their lovemaking.
"A pity," he breathes, and he turns to Lainloth to reveal the loss.
But she too is holding a token, and Teron grows still at the sight. It is a silver ring, which she spied falling from the pocket of Teron's discarded breeches.
"She is dead," he admits, not wanting her to draw false conclusions and think him disloyal.
Lainloth slowly closes her fist around the ring, stung by the grief so obvious in his rushed words. "Do you miss her?"
Teron pulls the last unsullied daisy from the pile of them upon his bare chest. He looks over it thoughtfully.
"I did,"
And he places the fragile blossom behind her ear, offering her a soft smile.
9.)
Lainloth has fallen asleep, nestled amongst the loam of the forest floor. She is surrounded by a sea of uilos and periwinkle.
Teron, still awake, delights in the way her hair falls over her shoulder and curtains her breast. Between the silken waves mingles the pearl glow of the moonlight and the soft white of her flesh.
He wishes to reach out to her, to run his hands over the skin he fears he may have missed before. But he does not, for he delights further in watching the subtle smile he has come to love captured on her still lips.
Does he love this maiden? No. Not yet.
Could he grow to love her? Could he allow the chasm within himself to be filled at last?
Teron looks to the stars above, painted amidst the canopy. He prays that the Gods might enlighten him with the answer to his query.
But the answer is there within him already, having been revealed by the tender touches and elegant seduction of the stranger beside him.
He turns again to look at Lainloth, admiring the graceful vivacity of his slumbering angel.
"Yes, my wildflower," he whispers. "I will love again,"