A/N: They're Tolkien's.
The practice had seemed strange to me when she had first mentioned it; what use did anyone have for a fire on the shortest, hottest night of the year? Still, I had been willing to go along with the local custom, to let her draw me further into her world. She had led me to the beach, where an inferno taller than I was blazed into the night, lighting a beacon as if for Valinor itself.
A small area off to our left, as well as around the fire itself, had been cleared for dancing, but none of the folk using it were practicing anything that resembled the involved, digified steps the court of Minas Tirith used. It was intricate after its own fashion, I supposed – I never figured out the rhythm or the pattern – but there was nothing too subtle about the way Finduilas rushed to join the other women as they twirled about the bonfire. She laughed, the sparkle in her eyes and the music in her voice daring me to join her, if I could. I had stood back, waiting, watching the fire to keep my eyes from following hers and getting myself burned alive.