The Dance
She enjoyed bringing him to the smaller villages in the North. They were not as formal here as in Tirion, the atmosphere more relaxed and the wine much stronger. She especially enjoyed arriving in time for festival or during other types of celebration for the festivities were louder and rowdy. They were unrestrained in their frivolity and while honored that the High Prince was amongst them, could care less whether he joined in. Which was why, when she heard there was a wedding in the village she insisted they go.
He was not interested of course. He was not fond of large gatherings due to his strange aversion to being touched. At formal occasions with his father she would observe him standing there stiffly, staring straight ahead avoiding all contact even with his eyes. Although he never seemed to mind when she grabbed him by the arm and pulled him along.
But here it was different. Here, he did not seem to mind the roughshod ways of the northern folk and admired their will and strength to live within these harsh lands. For even in Aman, life could be harsh at the edge of the wilds. But he respected them and their lack of interest in him. They always treated him with the proper respect due to a Noldorin High Prince mind you, always with the proper greetings and show of hospitality, but it stopped there. And he was allowed to meander at his own pace and seek out the interests of his own free will. Which is why he agreed, albeit reluctantly, to go with her and join the village revelry.
Inwardly she smiled though for while he would never admit it, she knew he enjoyed it.
She had borrowed a dress from the innkeeper's daughter although it did not really fit properly. Nothing ever really fit her properly, she being far too skinny in some areas, all lanky legs and knees and elbows and far too thick in others, her hips never seemed to conform to the proper proportions of Noldorin beauty. She would point out these obvious defects out but he would simply turn that piercing gaze he would get when appraising an object on her and say that she was being foolish for she was perfect, which for some reason only left her feeling even more awkward. She knew what perfection was and it was not her.
They joined the festivities well after the ceremony was over and the real celebrating had begun. The minstrels began to beat out the type of pounding rhythm that caused your feet and your heart to try to match and she did not wish to sit on the sides. It was a reel and it was fast and she jumped up and swept around the room, joining the other revelers and laughing with complete abandon. Whenever she looked up there was a different face before her, another set of hands around her waist leading her through the steps. She was released and spun around to the next partner and the next set of hands grabbed her and pulled her against their person to for the next turn around the room only when she looked up she knew the face that was smiling back at her. He was laughing and his hair flew around him, his clothes slightly disheveled and yet he still managed to look the picture of perfection. He pulled her against him as they flew across the room, but when they came back around to switch partners she he did not release her, instead held her to him to begin the steps again, leaving their would be partners standing there for the briefest of moments before they shrugged and moved on the next. She looked at him with surprise and laughed as she spoke.
"Fëanáro, we have to switch partners!"
To which he simply shrugged and pulled her even closer.
"Why?"
And suddenly she no longer knew whether the pounding she felt in her chest was from the pounding of the drums, her heart, or his.