Chapter summary: For a while, until the outside world intervenes, Carnistir and Tuilindien can see no reason to leave their lovely spot and lovely conversation in the garden.

A/N: This chapter continues directly where the first one left off. I promise the story will start moving more swiftly once this initial meeting is over.

Chapter II: A garden in silver light, part II

When Carnistir sees Tuilindien lick her lips as she thinks about her answer to a question he asked, his mind flies off to a wholly new place and he has to yank it back by force to stop this conversation from turning into an extremely embarrassing one. While that new place is far from unpleasant, it is inappropriate for this moment. Even he knows that.

To stop thinking about ascertaining whether her lips are really as soft as they look, he blurts out, 'Are you hungry?'

'I suppose I could eat something, I did escape from dinner early', she says a little hesitantly, and then, 'But to be quite honest, I would not like to go in yet.'

His heart skips a beat and he tells himself, in a strict inner voice, that she might just want to continue avoiding dancing; her words do not necessarily mean that she wants to stay talking with him. He offers, 'I could step in quickly, gather some food and then come back here. No one will wonder if I reappear and then disappear again. At this point, everyone's expectations of my manners are very low.'

She blinks a few times. 'That would be very kind of you. Will there be some sort of cake, do you think?'

'I will bring you cake if there is any', he promises and gets up. 'Just wait here', he finds himself telling her before he can think about how silly it sounds. She wasn't going anywhere.

Tuilindien watches him walk away with long determined strides. She turns her head to the large white flowers blooming in the bush behind her and breathes in their scent, but they do not smell of much at night and this attempt to concentrate on something other than the man who just left her and will return soon is unsuccessful.

This – he – was the last thing she expected to find at King Finwë's celebration, and she knows that she should bring an end to their time in the garden. It is unseemly and discourteous to spend all night hiding away with one man, shunning all other company; she has been raised to have better manners than this, and indeed usually does behave better. What must he think of her? Perhaps it is the wine she drank at dinner making her behave so thoughtlessly…

He thinks her fascinating, that is what it seems like, and it seems that she thinks his fascination wonderful. She knows that her family is probably getting worried after not seeing her for a long time, but even though she does not want to cause them distress, she is not ready to return to them. Not before he returns to her and she can watch him for a moment longer, his expressive dark eyes under long lashes, and listen to his low and pleasant voice as he explains something he is passionate about. There seems to be so much passion in him: it is exhilarating to her, and a little frightening.

When he returns after a surprisingly short time, he is balancing plates full of cakes and other delicacies on both his arms and carrying half-full wineglasses between the fingers of one hand and a whole carafe in the other.

She gets up to help him but as she does she feels a sharp tug of pain on her scalp and realises that her hair has become tangled up in the foliage. She yelps with pain and sits down again, gripping her head, then starts trying to disentangle her braids from the branches but scratches her finger on a thorn almost right away.

'Stop', commands Carnistir when he sees blood appear on her finger. 'Wait a moment.'

He sets down the food and wine, spilling almost all of the wine in the glasses on to the bench in his haste. He sits down very close to her and begins to extricate her hair.

She sits very still, and he has already removed one gleaming strand from the rosebush before he realises that he should probably have asked for her permission.

'Do you mind?'

'No.' She tries to shake her head but he stops it with a swift but gentle movement of his hand.

'Stay still', he says and returns to his task. It is a task he adores, for her hair is soft and smells better than the roses, and he fancies that he can see the silver treelight reflected in every single strand. The light makes its colour, probably a deep blonde shade like ripe wheat in any other lighting, look like pale gold.

A thorn rips his skin open but he just flicks the drop of blood aside and draws one last braid from among the branches and returns it back to its place in her simple hairdo. He tries to fix in place with a comb she has in her hair, a flimsy little thing decorated with a seashell in Telerin style, but the comb comes apart in his hands. 'I – I am so sorry, Ingolmiel, I think I broke your comb.'

'Oh.' She takes its pieces from his hand. 'No need to apologise, it was an old cracked thing already. I only wore it because –'

'Because what?' Carnistir watches as she bites her lip, embarrassed.

'Because it has always been good luck charm that I wear when I am nervous. For my exams, and for important parties.' She slips the pieces into a hidden pocket on the side of her skirts. 'It is very silly, I know.'

'It is not silly.' At her disbelieving look, he admits, 'Well, it is. But it is no matter.' He looks at her hair, the arrangement of small braids laying on top of freely flowing tresses now in disarray without the comb. 'I am afraid your coiffure is ruined now.'

Before he can stop himself he is straightening out the braids; it does not look the same as it did before, but it appears more purposeful now. She makes no noise and stays still, even turning her head a little towards his touch, and he takes a little longer than he needs to. Then, with a deep feeling of regret, he pulls his hand away and says, the words coming out very soft, 'There, that is as good as I can make it.'

Tuilindien turns to look at him. 'Thank you.' Her voice is a little husky now, and she does not seem angry with him for taking freedoms with her person. But she does shift to sit a little farther away from him.

'You are welcome.' Carnistir turns to busy himself with the food, certain that his cheeks must be flame-red. 'I am afraid I spilled almost all of the Vanyarin wine I brought, but there is plenty of our Noldorin wine.'

'Either is fine.' She is unaccustomed to the stronger drink the Noldor make, but its taste is not unpleasant, she has found tonight.

Carnistir hands her what is left of the light honey-coloured Vanyarin wine and an assortment of cakes. Their fingers touch as she takes the proffered treats, and she marvels again at how warm his skin is. When he had been helping her with her hair, she had felt the heat of him as if on her own skin. It had been delightful, but no matter how much she had enjoyed the warmth of his body next to hers, they had been indecently close. She is very well-bred, so she had moved to a decorous distance.

For a while they eat and drink in silence, both recovering from the unexpectedly intimate interactions. Tuilindien can see that he is looking even more awkward than she is feeling, and more surly and unhappy every moment that passes.

'These lemon cakes are very lovely', she remarks just to fill the silence, well aware of how inane a comment this is.

It makes a light come to life in his eyes anyway, and he responds eagerly. 'They are my favourite, too. I believe grandfather orders them from a baker in southern Tirion, they are not from the palace kitchens.'

'We have lemon trees in our garden at Taniquetil', Tuilindien says and takes a sip of the dark red Noldorin wine he just poured for her. 'I will have to ask our cook to make treats like this when we return home.'

It is as if a curtain is pulled across the light inside him; his eyes dim and his mouth twists into a very different expression. 'You will be going home when High King Ingwë does. Of course.'

Had he forgotten that I am only visiting, and it is truly this important for him? She is still taken aback by how much his emotions show on his physical form. She also feels like she wants to see him again, but she dares not let it show so clearly.

Speaking gently, she replies that she will actually be staying behind in Tirion for a while with her father when the rest of her family goes home with the king. Her father is also a scholar and they are both interested in exploring the libraries of the Noldor, and she, a young linguist in the beginning of her career, hopes to meet some of the most eminent linguists of the Noldor.

'I wrote to Rúmil some time ago', she says a little nervously. 'Your father, of course, is just as renowned for his work with our languages and letters, but I understand that he now mainly pursues other interests.'

'Yes, he prefers his workshop and forge to libraries now.' Carnistir picks one of the small cakes apart with his fingers. 'His interests change from time to time.'

'He famously has very many talents', Tuilindien puts it more diplomatically. 'And he is a high prince, so it is understandable that he has little time to devote to scholars' meetings. That is no doubt why Rúmil is the one to host us Vanyarin scholars while we are here in Tirion.'

Ah yes. Carnistir remembers there being talk of this, before King Ingwë's visit and again during tonight's more boring parts. This royal visit is not only for diplomacy but also for strengthening trade relations and for scholarly communities to meet and exchange ideas.

She is being very gracious about it all, he thinks. Implying that his father would be in charge of the scholarly collaborations if not for his many responsibilities, when in fact he would not play host to any Vanyar even if scholarship was still his main pursuit. Ingolmiel must know this, for Fëanáro hardly keeps his opinions to himself; surely they are also known among Ingwë's people.

Tuilindien is in fact aware of Fëanáro's coolness towards her people – to put it mildly – and that is why she is so nervous about what she feels she must tell Morifinwë next.

'In one of the scholars' meetings that are planned, I am going to give a presentation.'

'Really?' He looks impressed.

'It is not an important presentation, just a small one that marks the beginning of my own work as a scholar rather than as another's assistant.' Now she is the one nervously playing with her food. 'Actually, my presentation is on a commentary that I have written on one your father's earliest works about language.'

'Oh.' He looks like he does not know what to think about this.

'My commentary is mostly complimentary on his treatise, but of course as is the case always with scholarly work, I – well, I do not presume to improve on his work, but I do point out some of your father's views which have been since disproved or called into question.'

Morifinwë frowns. 'Do you think I will mind that?'

She has been feeling a little nervous, and like he should know about this, before they – she did not know what she thought they would do, but… Oh, she is feeling so muddled. It now seems a ridiculous notion that she could present her views on prince Fëanáro's work when she cannot even carry a conversation with his son.

When she does not answer instantly, Morifinwë moves a little closer to her again and tells her, very earnestly, 'I do not care what you say about my father's treatise – well, as long as you do not completely ridicule it, I suppose. I confess I know little about scholarly matters but I do know that critiquing each other's work is part of it. I only hope your presentation will go well.'

'Thank you', she says and smiles at him in gratitude. 'I promise I am usually not this inelegant in conversation, so I do have some hope of not completely embarrassing myself in front of the brightest minds of Taniquetil and Tirion. And I have been preparing this presentation for a long time.'

'I am certain it will be wonderful, then', he says, in a show of loyalty that she will soon learn is characteristic to him.

Tuilindien takes a tiny sip of wine – best be careful with that since she seems to be prone to becoming disorientated in his company anyway – and asks him about a detail in his extension plans that she had not quite understood earlier, and little by little they find their way back to the easily flowing discussion they had enjoyed earlier.

Though she is careful with the wine, and he hardly drinks enough to become intoxicated either, it is somehow so very easy to smile and laugh and feel wonderful together in this little corner of the great garden that has for a while become their world. When the appearance of another person reminds them that this is in fact not all there is, it is like a rude awakening from a lovely dream.

A woman pops her head in past the rosebushes when they laugh loudly together at something very silly. Carnistir recognises her as Maquetimië, a lady of Finwë's court, married to one of his advisors and generally regarded as the worst gossipmonger in Tirion's high society. As soon as he sees her Carnistir wants to swear, but he manages to keep quiet and only scowl at the woman.

His scowl does not subdue Maquetimië in the least: she looks delighted when she sees Carnistir. 'Prince Morifinwë, how nice to see that you are enjoying this party that your grandfather planned for so long! But I heard your mother remark, quite a while ago now, that she wonders where you are.'

Carnistir, who has already leapt up from the bench, tells her, 'I believe that I am old enough that my mother does not seriously worry about my wellbeing when she does not see me for a while.'

He realises that he is talking loudly and angrily, although thank the Valar he managed to keep his words at least moderately civil. But he can see out of the corner of his eye that Tuilindien looks confused and a little worried, so he tries to fix the situation.

He bows to the old crow, stiffly but deep enough to be just about respectful, and says, 'I do thank you for your concern, lady, but I do not wish to detain you from the company of those you were seeking when you happened upon me and this young lady conversing.' He tries to keep his tone from being too freezing, but allows all of his natural haughtiness to shine through.

Maquetimië understands his words as the dismissal they are and leaves, expressing a wish that he and 'his lovely young lady' have a pleasant night. He can see the gleefulness in her eyes and knows that he has failed to convince the avid gossipmonger that she had not just found a new rumour to spread. If it was even possible to begin with – discovering one of the royal princes alone with a maiden in a secluded corner is prime material for gossip, especially when it is a prince about whom there is usually little to talk about except that he has shouted at someone in public again.

Berating lady Maquetimië and himself in his mind, Carnistir sits down again next to Tuilindien, but the quiet enchantment that had existed between them, lending a measure of grace to his behaviour and words and making her listen to him with such rapt attention, has passed. He feels awkward and she stares at her hands. Neither knows what to say.

After a moment's silence, Carnistir says morosely, 'My mother doesn't even like her, I am certain they have not talked, she has just been eavesdropping on her just like she sneaked in on us. Damn it, I should have done more to make her think that there is nothing worth gossiping about here.'

'You do need to be angry on my behalf', Tuilindien offers, uneasy with his crossness. 'I am a stranger here, and not of much consequence. But I am sorry if being seen with me will cause you difficulty.'

'Oh, I don't care about gossips', he says with a dismissive movement of his arm. 'All they ever say about me is that I have a terrible temper.' So being gossiped about being seen with a maiden would, in principle at least, be an improvement. 'But I would not want it might make your stay here unpleasant.'

She does dislike the idea of becoming an object of whispered rumours, though she tried to downplay it. Yet, as she tells him, she will not be spending much time at court, and loremasters are not ones to indulge in gossiping.

Both of them find it difficult now to find topics of conversation, and impossible to find any laughter at all, and after a while Tuilindien says, 'That lady did have a point: we have been here for a long time. I think I, at least, should go in; your mother might not worry when you disappear, but my family will be wondering if I have managed to get lost in this big palace.'

He seems very reluctant, yet he stands up and offers her his hand. 'I can show you the way back, so you do not indeed become lost.'

She looks at his outstretched hand, large and strong-looking, adorned by one wide silver ring and a few freckles. She can imagine how very warm that hand would feel holding her own…

But she is a courtier's daughter, manners and etiquette instilled in her since she was an infant. She says softly and reluctantly, 'I believe we had better go in separately in order to not add to the rumours.'

He withdraws his hand and says, 'Of course', but he seems unhappy.

His unhappiness hurts her – another odd thing to think about when her head clears – so she tells him, 'I am happy that you happened upon my hiding place; I have very much enjoyed talking with you.' As she too stands up, she smiles at him and with her smile, tries to tell him that if it were not for other people, she would gladly walk through the garden with her hand on his arm or even in his hand.

He does seem to brighten up a little, though his frown remains. 'You can go first, since your family worries more.'

'Thank you.' She smiles at him again. 'You have made me feel very welcome in Tirion.'

Carnistir does not like this last compliment very much; it sounds impersonal and has little to do with why he really spoke with her so long. But he supposes that she is behaving like she should, observing all the little rules that he finds so exasperating and saying the empty formal things that he tends to forget. He takes solace in her having also said that she is happy that he had found her, words which he much preferred.

But now he must say something, for she is about to leave. 'I am also glad that I happened upon you, Ingolmiel.'

Then she is gone with another sweet smile, and he stands there for many moments cursing himself for not saying more, although he does not know what that more would have been. He could hardly have asked her to never leave, though that was what he wanted.

When enough time has passed that he thinks she must have found her way back to the ballroom even if she did get lost along the way a few times, he goes in as well and looks for his mother. He does not have time to do more than nod at her before an irate and uncharacteristically flustered Curufinwë descends upon him.

'Where were you all this time?' hisses Curufinwë angrily. 'When you could not be found, mother made me dance with all those girls that you should have been dancing with. Twelve of them, eight Vanyarin, and three giggled the entire time!'

Carnistir looks at Curufinwë condescendingly, though it has become more difficult since his little brother grew to be as tall as he is. 'Well, it is high time you grew up and embraced your responsibilities.'

'You are not embracing yours – you escaped somewhere for the whole night!'

'I have been doing it for years. It was your turn.'

Before Curufinwë can protest again, Tyelcormo appears behind them and throws his arms on his brothers' shoulders.

'I think we have done our duty by showing our faces this long. What say you, brothers, if we leave this party and go somewhere where there is something stronger than wine to partake of?'

From Tyelco's manner that is even more exuberant than usual Carnistir can tell that he has already been partaking of the wine quite liberally. Curufinwë can see it as well.

'Best get him out of here', he says dryly to Carnistir. 'Before mother or grandfather sees him.'

Carnistir does not object; he has certainly got all the enjoyment out of this party that he possibly could, much more than he expected in fact.

So he agrees with his brothers and the three of them leave, Tyelco and Curvo arguing about which tavern to go to. Carnistir doesn't voice an opinion – he does not care and besides, as they leave the room he is busy looking around to see Tuilindien again. But if she is there, he cannot tell her slender golden-haired figure from the dozens of other Vanyar in the room.

Tuilindien sees him and watches him go with his brothers. She wishes she could leave the party too, and then in the peace of her own bedchamber make sense of all the confusing new emotions swirling inside her.

But when she finally does get to take off her formal dress, brush her hair down and go to bed, everything is already clear. The dark prince who found her in the garden is something special to her, something unlooked for, a very unlikely discovery, yet precious after only one night. To her surprise it is easy to fall asleep.

Her dreams that night, and on many following nights, are of wandering in a strange place looking for something. It is as if something is calling out to her, and she does not know the way there yet.

A/N: I realised when finishing this chapter after having laid it aside for a long time that I refer to Tyelcormo drinking heavily both here and in Sparks fly out. So I guess that my (wholly accidental) headcanon is that Tyelco is within the House of Fëanor that one person in the family who always gets more drunk than everyone else… (This chapter mirrors a scene in Sparks fly out in some other ways as well. Partially it's intentional but also, I'm a lazy writer.)

About name usage, for those who are interested in such things: as you may have noticed, I'm utilising the practice that father-names (Morifinwë for Carnistir, Ingolmiel for Tuilindien) are used in formal contexts: between strangers, between people of different stations, and to create and maintain an emotional distance. Mother-names, shortened versions of father-names and epessi are used between friends, lovers and family members, and using them requires either explicit or tacit permission. This almost certainly isn't what Tolkien meant his complicated Quenya naming conventions to amount to (it's too simplistic, for one; Tolkien liked nothing if not complexity when it came to names) but it seems to me a sensible way for a fan writer to use these many different names. In the name of honesty I must also admit that I'm not sure whether I came up with this practice myself or if I unconsciously adopted it from another fic.

In the next chapter: Carnistir's attempts at romantic crafting - because love poetry really isn't his style - featuring an extremely snarky Curufinwë.