"Where can we hide in fair weather, we orphans of the storm?"

― Evelyn Waugh, Brideshead Revisited

Bereneth and Cestedir found their way back to the Singing Marigold, Aearis in tow, in the first hour of morning light. The silk of her dress had been ruined with salt water, and her hair was a hurricane of dark, windswept tangles. But there was color in her cheeks again, and her eyes blazed like an electric storm.

She greeted him with a cool incline of her head, casting her eyes downward to avoid holding his gaze. Cestedir shot a curious glance between them, but he asked no questions, and the tension was allowed to sit undisturbed and smothering over their party like a funeral shroud.

"We should make for my manor in Harlindon," Glorfindel said at breakfast, once everyone had filled their plates. "I expect that Rhossorieth will summon us to court in a fortnight at most, and there is much to be done before you can make such an appearance."

"Two weeks to mourn a loved one." Bereneth's tone was carefully neutral, but he saw a flash of ire in her usually serene eyes. "Is this the generosity we can expect of the court of the High King?"

"I will stall them as long as I can," he promised, placating, "but-"

"Unnecessary." Glorfindel's head snapped around at Aearis's sudden interjection. She had spoken so little all morning that the sound of her voice sent a shiver down his spine. "We are already within three miles of the palace-we may as well join the court now."

What color remained in Bereneth's fair face promptly left it. He hastened to speak again to soothe the Silvan girl's rising anxiety.

"Impossible," he replied. Aearis's eyes narrowed at the decisive note in his voice, and he felt her contrary spirit buck against his will. "None of you are ready for the Lindon court."

"Oh?" Her voice was steeped in restless, simmering resentment. "And in what way do you deem us lacking, My Lord?" Despite himself, he felt a spark of irritation begin smoldering behind his sternum. But before he could make a hasty retort, Cestedir forestalled him.

"Aearis, would you make some effort to consult your reason just this once? We know nothing of the customs here. Two weeks is little enough time to catch up as it is without your damned impatience."

Aearis opened her mouth, met Cestedir's eye, and closed it. Glorfindel could only marvel at the unprecedented concession. He waited for several seconds, but she appeared pacified.

"As I said, if we retire to my lands for a time, I can make preparations."

"Such as?" Aearis asked, a study in innocence under Cestedir's warning glare.

"For a start, you will all need clothes made."

"We have perfectly good clothes." Not so very pacified, then.

"Not by Lindon standards," he replied evenly, meeting her hard gaze. "Even your finest dress from Imladris would be taken as an insult if you wore it to court."

"There must be a seamstress in Mithlond," she said, apparently doggedly determined to disagree with him. "We can stay here at the Marigold. I can earn our keep."

"How? By working as a tavern minstrel?" Cestedir supplied. He spoke as though in jest, but there was no mirth in his face. "Or perhaps a post at the docks might suit you?"

"I will not be kept as a pet, Cestedir," she hissed, her cover of lofty calm cracking suddenly. "You may be content to walk in the shadows of lords, but I am not. Better a dock hand than a courtesan."

She might as well have sucked the air out of Glorfindel's lungs. The ember of frustration was extinguished utterly, leaving only cavernous, hollow sensation in his chest.

"Enough. Hush, Aearis, you are talking nonsense." Bereneth spoke with an air of perfect finality. "We are guests in this land. We will do as our wiser friends suggest and accept their help with gratitude."

Aearis looked ready to argue, but Bereneth pointed silently to the beads in her hair. A wry smile twisted Aearis's mouth and her face softened instantly.

"As you say," she said, with a nod so courtly that it may as well have been a bow. "Courtesan it is."


The ferry ride to Harlond was bright with music, for the elves who passed between the harbors of Lindon seemed to have an endless supply of songs that were known to all among them. For once, Aearis listened in silence. These were not the cheerful, open elves of Imladris, whose warm, easy manners welcomed strangers into ready intimacy. Nor were they cold and suspicious like the elves of Lothlorien, concealing their distrust of outsiders beneath a thin veneer of civility. The Noldor of Lindon were elegant, cosmopolitan, as marvellously charming as they were utterly unreadable. Their conversations slid fluidly between Sindarin and Quenya, leaping quickly between matters of state, lore, art, and fashion.

Aearis felt extraordinarily small amongst these tall, unrelentingly clever strangers, like a pebble amongst precious gems. Her small trunk of possessions had been sent ahead with the horses, and she cursed her impulsive decision to ruin her only available dress with sea water, for now she stood barefoot among her impeccably dressed fellow passengers with her wrinkled, discolored dress and hair curling with wild abandon in the ocean air, not to mention Dinalagos curled into a disgruntled ball at her feet. But even as she tugged self-consciously at the sleeves of her ruined dress and ran her fingers uselessly through her hair, she felt the power of the ocean thrumming all around her with intensity that left her light-headed.

Between Aearis and Glorfindel there stretched a tenuous detente, marked by perfect, hollow politeness. Every time she looked at him, she remembered his rushed confession, that he had predicted that her mother would never survive to meet the sea again, and anger surged through her blood with overpowering force. He had assured her. She had left her mother's life in his hands, and still she had died with the Shadow's sword in her heart.

"How long do you intend to keep this up?" Bereneth asked her as they stood together at the rail of the ferry, looking out on the brilliantly blue water. "He is beside himself."

"You think me unreasonable. More so than usual, I mean." Bereneth met her eye with a wry smile. She had listened with patient neutrality as Aearis explained in hushed tones-with one notable omission-what had transpired between them at the shore. But Bereneth's tranquil reception of the revelation that sat so bitter on Aearis's tongue served only to infuriate her more.

"You are grieving-of course you are unreasonable. It would be more worrisome if you weren't. I only wish that you would aim your ire at any other target," she sighed, turning to look at the golden-haired elf with an expression of deep concern that galled Aearis to no end.

"He knew-" she started, the words hissing out between her teeth with more vehemence than she had intended.

"So did we. So did Cestedir. What should he have done? Thrown her into the dungeons of Imladris to stop her making the journey? Forbidden her from riding out to protect her husband?" Bereneth's voice was maddeningly calm. When Aearis said nothing, only tightening her grip on the railing until her knuckles were starkly white, she continued speaking. "I understand your anger, darling. We all do. But just because Glorfindel will suffer it without complaint does not mean that he deserves to bear the brunt. How long do you intend to punish him for someone else's crime?"

Aearis swallowed hard against the lump in her throat, but the next words came out choked nonetheless.

"She would not be dead if he-"

"The decisions that lead to her death were hers, and hers alone," Bereneth interrupted, and there was an edge to her voice that Aearis had seldom heard before. "Your anger is not with him, and you would be a fool to torture the living with your grudges against the dead."

She strode away before Aearis could find any reply, leaving her steeping in an unpleasant concoction of fury, indignation, and shame.

But Glorfindel looked far from tortured to Aearis's ungenerous eye. From the moment they had set foot in Mithlond, he was constantly surrounded by a glittering crowd of beautiful elves, who orbited him with sickening adulation. In Imladris, he had been loved and admired. In Lindon, it seemed, he was positively revered. He received these slavish attentions with serene good humor. He seemed to know everyone, remember the names of their children, their parents, and their favorite hound.

They were greeted at the harbor of Harlond by what might be fairly called a giantess by the standards of any reasonably-sized person. She was clad in the light, practical cotton clothes in shades of pale blue, embroidered with flowering vines in golden thread. Her dark hair was tied back in a maze of tight, perfectly interwoven ropes. Though she was clearly elvish, she carried herself with practical, unromantic posture. There was a harsh, hawkish beauty about her weathered face, but she had none of the delicacy that elves so treasured, for her shoulders were as broad as a Man's, and her long arms and legs were thickly corded with muscle. Glorfindel greeted her with an elated cry, jumping over the railing of the ferry onto the dock to embrace her.

"My my," she said as the others approached the enormous pair cautiously, "if you missed me so much, perhaps you should have returned sooner. And what have you brought me, my lord? A fine assortment of strays, indeed-you always do bring the best presents."

"Thalwest, allow me to introduce my traveling companions. Captain Cestedir of the Imladris Guard, Lady Bereneth Amathiel, and-"

"Aearis," she interrupted, stepping forward swiftly to introduce herself. "Of Andunie." She bowed with a hand over her heart and Thalwest returned the gesture, throwing an inquisitive look at Glorfindel as she did.

"Well met, friends," she said in her deep, resonating voice. "I am Thalwest, Steward of Lord Glorfindel's lands. You are most welcome here."

"They are to stay at the manor, Thalwest. Would you-"

"I have contracted a tailor, a seamstress, a dance instructor, and a lady's maid in town. Will that suffice, my lord?" Glorfindel grinned broadly.

"I see my presence is entirely unnecessary as ever." Thalwest returned his smile, but without conviction.

"No indeed, my lord, you are most needed here." She spoke seriously, the words laden with unspoken meaning. Glorfindel's brow furrowed deeply, but he said nothing.


The House of the Golden Flower was without rival the most beautiful work of architecture that Bereneth had ever seen. It was built out of a cliff overlooking the western sea, composed of slender, towering vaulted arches of rough stone and great windows of many-faceted glass that split the light into a cascade of jewel-bright hues like sunlit waterfalls. The floor of the airy entrance hall was a single, vast mosaic in the image of a starry sky, inlaid with lapis lazuli and pearlescent shell.

But, even lovelier than any of the artistic excesses of the Noldor was the woman who awaited them there in the center of that wondrous room. Lady Rhossorieth was seated with her usual air of imperious repose, commanding the room with the sheer overwhelming force of her beauty. Her circlet of mithril and blazing sapphires haloed her in uncanny blue light, and her gown of iridescent, diaphanous silver silk glowed under the afternoon sun. She rose to meet them with that lovely, heartless smile of hers and slender arms outstretched in greeting.

Glorfindel came to a dead halt in front of them at the sight of her, and the casual, languid grace of his posture hardened instantly into almost battle-ready tension. She saw him throw an accusing glance at Thalwest, who shrugged, apparently just as surprised as the rest of them. Plainly Rhossorieth had timed her arrival perfectly, slipping in after Thalwest had departed to Harlond to retrieve them. An elegant ambush.

There was a moment-brief, but so unbearably tense that it stretched into an eternity-of perfect silence. Then, of course, Aearis spoke.

"Lady Rhossorieth, how delightfully unexpected to see you here!" She stepped forward and curtseyed deeply, utterly unselfconscious with her salt-soaked dress, her tangled curls, her bare feet. The quirk of a true smile flashed around Rhossorieth's mouth as her eyes flickered over the girl in quick appraisal.

"How extraordinarily well you look, Lady Aearis. The sea agrees with you."

Glorfindel cut in before Aearis could reply, and though his attitude was still that of a cornered animal, his voice was light and musical.

"To what do we owe this pleasure, my Lady? I did not think to have the privilege of your company for some time." He drew himself even taller, as if to form a wall between Rhossorieth and his companions.

"Peace, Glorfindel," she said with a crystalline laugh, her hand raised in placation. "I come to pay my condolences, nothing more. Lady Gimlith was…" she trailed off, and her eyes fell on Aearis again, on her proud, fragile posture. "She was extraordinary. Her loss will be felt by all who knew her." Her voice seemed so compellingly sincere that Bereneth allowed herself to admire her craft. Aearis, at least, seemed mollified, accepting the pleasantries with murmured thanks and downturned eyes. "I owe a great deal to your family," she continued, inclining her head to Aearis, Cestedir, and Bereneth in turn. "It is my dear hope that I might be allowed to be of service to you now." There was a pleasing uncertainty in Rhossorieth's eyes as she spoke. So pleasing that Bereneth was forced to stop and remind herself that every fleeting gesture of this exquisite Noldorin lady was the result of beautifully-engineered artifice.

Bereneth glanced as Cestedir as he shifted uncomfortably beside her, and he returned the look with barely concealed skepticism.

"A gracious offer," Glorfindel replied, gritting the words out through clenched teeth. "But I assure you, they will be well cared for here, my Lady."

"Of that, I have no doubt." Rhossorieth's composure in the shadow of Glorfindel's towering form was impeccable. "But you have long been absent from court. Perhaps your young charges might benefit from the guidance of a more… current view of matters of high society." Glorfindel bristled like Dinalagos over a bone.

"I have never had any difficulty navigating petty intrigue, Rhossorieth," he snapped. His thin veneer of courtly manners melted away. "I can teach them just as well as you can, with none of your ulterior motives."

The tension in the air shattered into jagged shards as Rhossorieth tilted her head back and burst into laughter. Not the musical, silvery laugh Bereneth had often heard from her, but piercing, shoulder-shaking expression of what could only be real amusement. Mockery rang in every syllable, and Glorfindel's powerful hands clenched into tight, white-knuckled fists.

"So much falsehood in so few words, Glorfindel. Truly you are a jewel of this court."

"And what lie would you accuse me of?" he snarled, a guttural sound that seemed to issue from the core of the earth itself.

"Oh, not lies, my dear. Never lies. Just a spectacular disregard for reality, as always. But, out of the six or seven points that immediately present themselves I shall select just one… Quite simply, you are not a woman."

"That, I will concede. What of it?"

"That you even need ask such a question proves my point, I think. The demands of this society on young ladies far exceed anything you have ever experienced, anywhere. You, Herald of Manwe, beloved and applauded for your very existence. You believe that you could ever comprehend the burden that will fall upon their shoulders the moment they set foot within the palace gates? You presume to know what a half-elven daughter of murky parentage and a Silvan orphan will face at court?" Though the words would have made Bereneth balk in any other context, there was no insult in Rhossorieth's tone. At least, not towards her. "They cannot rely on their unpolished charms here as they did in Imladris, nor can they spurn and reject the counsel of the leaders of this realm as in Lothlorien." Aearis shifted guiltily at this, twisting her hands together. "They must be above reproach. They must make the right friends, choose the perfect words, and astound the court with their beauty and skill. All this, and even so it may not be enough."

"You would manipulate them with fear-mongering. I will not allow it, Rhossorieth. You have seen Aearis's power, Bereneth's strength, and you would twist them to your own purpose."

"Ah, yes, my ulterior motives," she retorted, the delicate inflection of her voice loaded with derision. "Whereas, in your perfectly disinterested opinion, the only acceptable course of action is to keep Aearis beneath your roof you until she-"

She broke off, taking an involuntary step back. Glorfindel's expression must have been terrible to behold, because a look of true fear flickered over Rhossorieth's face before she settled back into an impassive mask.

"If at any point either of you wish to consult "them" on the matter of their own fate, Bereneth and I will be wherever the dining room is." Bereneth's pulse, which had spiked to goblin-hunting levels as the conflict mounted between the two fierce Noldor, climbed to an intolerable pitch as Aearis, slight, reckless, inexplicably confident Aearis, stepped between them. "Please do be sure to shout at each other quite loudly. I, for one, would very much like to hear what the pair of you decide on our behalf." She turned to Thalwest, who had been standing to the side-but still within arm's reach of her lord-with unobtrusively coiled muscles, and quirked a brow. The tall steward cast a wary look at Glorfindel before smiling and bowing to Aearis.

"Just this way, my friends. I took the liberty of having a warm meal prepared. The mushrooms from the Blue Mountains are delectable this time of year."

"You are perfectly marvelous, Thalwest," Aearis enthused, apparently perfectly indifferent to the burning glares that Rhossorieth and Glorfindel were exchanging over her head. She bestowed a deep curtsey and blithe smile upon each of them before following Thalwest to the great double doors at the other end of the hall. Bereneth followed her automatically, her frayed nerves vibrating. With one foot through the door, however, Aearis turned and fixed Glorfindel with a calm, fathomless gaze.

"She has a point, you know." Her quietly-spoken words slipped under his defenses, and his shoulders slumped in sudden defeat.

"Yes," he said. "I know."


She was a tyrant. Upon reflection, Aearis had to concede that she likely should have predicted as much. And, on her eighth consecutive hour of dancing lessons under Rhossorieth's exacting eye, she cursed her lack of foresight.

Rhossorieth circled as she practiced the steps again, a crystal chalice filled with wine teetering on the top of her head. Already the floor glittered with vicious slivers of the goblet's ill-fated predecessors. The fine, heavy silk gown of pure white that her fair dictator had insisted she wear was now amply adorned with deep red stains, marking each of her errors in stark relief. It had been precisely four thousand and forty-one beats since the last one had broken-her longest interval of success yet.

Out of the corner of her eye, Aearis could just spy Bereneth, turning with perfect ease through each of the devilishly complex motions of the dance, her first chalice still infuriatingly intact. The sound of a single fiddle, wielded by an increasingly uneasy, skittish-looking Silvan fellow, grated on her nerves as it repeated the same sickeningly sweet song ad nauseum.

"Aearis," Rhossorieth's voice flicked out like a whip. "Keep your hips in line with your shoulders." She could not contain a huff as she strove to correct her loose posture. The jagged crystal floor tinkled as every motion of her vast, preposterous skirt stirred them. "Such a sour expression does not become a lady of the court. Do you object to the Lillameril? Or is it my teaching that does not please you?" Though her tone suggested more amusement than offence, still Aearis dared no answer.

She was spared the necessity when Thalwest entered, followed by two footmen in elegant, pale blue livery carrying trays laden with fragrant cuts of meat. The sun had sunk low in the sky, casting a dancing golden hue over the broken crystal and deep red pools of wine, and Aearis's stomach snarled with primal ferocity at the enticing scents wafting towards her. Thalwest cast an appraising eye over the mayhem, and Aearis got the impression that here was one who had seen far worse. She cleared her throat and met Rhossorieth's eye with all the confidence of a loyal soldier acting on her orders.

"Lord Glorfindel bids me announce that it is supper time, my lady, and that no guest of his will be permitted to skip two meals in a row."

Unbidden and unwanted, Aearis felt a surge of affection for Glorfindel rush in before she hastily stamped it down. He had been forbidden in no uncertain terms from entering their improvised hall of torture after one too many attempts to argue with Rhossorieth's methods. Now, however, his fierce, overprotective presence would have come as a great relief.

"Pray tell Lord Glorfindel that his jurisdiction ends at the door, and that no pupil of mine shall be seated to a meal until she has learned the Lillameril. Bereneth, you may eat now if you choose."

"Thank you, my lady," Bereneth murmured without breaking the rhythm of her dance, "but I shall not eat until Aearis does."

Rhossorieth's slender brows shot up briefly before her expression returned almost instantly to its state of unruffled calm.

"As you will, then. Aearis, again."

Thalwest seemed to be of a mind to intervene more forcefully, but Aearis caught her eye and shook her head minutely-though the chalice wobbled dangerously nevertheless, causing a stream of wine to trickle into her right eye. She blinked furiously to clear the stinging red from her vision.

"Not to worry, Thalwest," she chirped, forcing a lighthearted smile, "I have quite nearly mastered the dance. The pantries will not be safe for long." By way of reply, Thalwest merely aimed an eloquent look at the disastrous state of the floor. "Just a flesh wound," she said, waving a dismissive hand and wincing as a second, larger torrent of wine slopped over the side of the chalice and down her back.

"He will not stop fussing until both of you have eaten," Thalwest pointed out, looking deeply aggrieved.

"Tell him that we will join him in the dining hall presently. And that we are not in the least bit-" she was interrupted by a gurgling roar from her empty stomach. "... hungry."

She held Thalwest's bright gaze with all the obstinacy that she could muster in her half-starved state. Finally, the giantess rolled her eyes and shrugged.

"Have it your way," she said, gesturing to the footmen, who surveyed the bloody scene in shock. The steward made to leave, muttering something about shared psychosis.

"Oh, and Thalwest? Leave the knives."

She waited until Thalwest's booted footsteps had retreated from the door before seizing a carving knife in one hand. Rhossorieth eyed her warily, her eyes flickering between Aearis's eyes and the glinting blade in her hand.

"Should I be concerned?" she asked, and Aearis was pleased with the slightest hint of hesitation that made its way into her eminently assured countenance. In response, she smiled and plucked the teetering goblet from her head, draining it in a single gulp. Then, the strong, sweet wine heady on her tongue, she dashed the hated object, delicate, beautiful, glittering, upon the floor. Rhossorieth watched silently, her tranquil expression frozen stiff on her perfect face.

"I cannot thank you enough, Lady Rhossorieth, for your patient tutelage. But no dance worth learning can be done in attire like this." So saying, she took the long, wicked carving knife and slashed at the thick, many-layered skirts of her ruined dress until only one remained, fluttering down to her knees in serrated tatters. Next she tended to her sleeves, amputating the long, gracefully sweeping trains that constantly flapped around her hands. The Silvan minstrel blanched and averted his eyes with a sort of choking hiccup. Finally she allowed the knife, which seemed to hold Rhossorieth in a trance as it enacted her heretical will, to clatter to the ground. She proffered her hand to the dark-haired lady with a dramatic bow. "Now we can dance."


When Glorfindel burst into the room, wondrous hair loose and chaotic around his face and ancient eyes wild with anger, he was instantly brought up short by the scene that greeted him.

At the center of the room, Rhossorieth and Aearis circled each other to the quavering tune of the fiddle. Rhossorieth's hand rested against Aearis's rib cage just under her heart, and the two women moved in tenuous synchrony, their every step in perfect agreement with each impetuous phrase of the music. Their steps intertwined in endlessly complex patterns, perilously close entanglement without accident or discord, as though they were responding to commands heard by none but them.

There was a breathless harmony between them-an ardent, urgent understanding that drove the delicate dance, faster and faster, swirling with muted power. Under the dying light, Aearis blossomed, crimson as the sunset. Red stains trickled over her skin and crept around the bodice of her luminous white dress like bloody vines, dyed her lips dark and succulent and intoxicating with the kiss of wine. There was a flush in her cheeks and dark curls traced tenderly over her temples and throat, escaping from their intricately constricting braids and alive with the rhythm of her motion. She pushed and pulled playfully, like the tide, and Rhossorieth, proud Rhossorieth, the Lady of Whispers, fell to her will like a breeze to a cyclone.

When the music drew to a close, the minstrel fell against the wall in a slump, as though the bones had left his body, and the room awakened slowly. Lanterns began flickering to life as darkness gathered under the tall glass windows, and a shimmering haze of light fell over the assembled elves.

Aearis was the first to speak, breaking the reverent silence as casually as a crystal chalice.

"And that, my lady, is how we dance in Numenor."

Rhossorieth did not speak for a long, taut moment, her unreadable eyes locked with Aearis's. When she did, she sounded pensive, almost dreamy.

"You have given me a great deal to think about, Aearis of Andunie." She raised her right hand and scrutinized it, as though she expected to see burn marks when it had touched the young woman. "I should return to my post," she went on after another pause. "I will call again soon."

She departed in a rustle of silk and a clinking of glass, followed by the melancholy Silvan player.

"So," Aearis began, shattering the quiet once more. "Dinner?"


True to her word and unfailingly punctual, Rhossorieth returned to the manor not a week after the puzzling dance lesson.

This time, however, she came prepared. Her attendants, countless and each more beautiful and finely dress than the last, fluttered in behind her like a flock of jeweled birds. Their arms were laden with lustrous fabrics and glittering gems on finely wrought chains.

"I have reflected, Lady Aearis, and I see now that I was mistaken in my approach. A lady of the Noldor you shall never be, nor should you."

"And whom would you have me be, Lady Rhossorieth?" Aearis eyed her curiously. The pale lady was perfectly unchanged, yet there was a new note in the air between them. If she had not known better, Aearis might almost have supposed it to be respect.

"Why, yourself, Lady Aearis. Who else?"

As it turned out, Rhossorieth's idea of "being herself" involved far more alterations and adjustments than a naive observer might expect. Her table manners, Aearis learned, were utterly unsuited to her new role, and her head was soon spinning with the intricate choreography of Lindon dining. Over the course of three weeks, every detail of her conduct was minutely pried apart and reforged, almost identical but with the unmistakable sheen of a master's craftsmanship. Her steps were lighter, her laughter sweeter, her eyes brighter, and her blushes prettier. It must all be natural. Unaffected. Effortless. And, of course, it must all be perfect.

The girls' Imladris wardrobe, too, had been deemed unacceptable, and Rhossorieth had arrived fully prepared to remedy the shortcomings of her new charges.

Bereneth she clad in the current fashions of the Noldor: structured, heavily embroidered gowns with bodices that dipped to expose the ridge of her collarbone and outlined the curve of her narrow waist to great effect. The sleeves were banded at the elbow, then flared to drape long and rustling against the folds of her voluminous skirts. She pulled at the offending fabric absent-mindedly as she was pinned aggressively into a particularly ornate green gown, casting pleading looks at Aearis.

The final vision, though undeniably beautiful, was so unfamiliar as to be entirely alien. Tall, still, lissome, draped in shimmering cascades of translucent green, Bereneth glowed with the tragic loveliness of a willow. Her auburn hair, loose and shining with silver beads, framed her pale face, and her eyes were bright as a sunlit stream. She was a woodland treasure, cut and polished by skilled hands until she sparkled with the subtle fire of a Noldorin gem. The sight of her in her molded perfection plucked a deep, sad chord in Aearis's heart. To what fate had she led her wonderful, faithful friend?

As she was beckoned to stand before the tall, ornate mirror, her eyes lingered on Bereneth even as the attendants began the work of stripping away her modest linen dress and remaking her in a new image. They dressed her in bright white, the mourning color of Numenor. The bodice swept low, almost scandalously low, to hint at the swell of her distinctly un-elven breasts, then cinched in dramatically at her waist. The skirts floated down over her hips to whisper around her feet, each layer of fabric so light that it might have been woven out of mist. No beading burdened the weightless garment, but embroidery of vivid spring flowers wound up from the hem to curl around her hips and waist and frame her exposed shoulders and throat. Most pleasing to Aearis were the sleeves of transparent silk, which were gathered at her wrists. To showcase the delicacy of her bones, Rhossorieth had claimed, but Aearis suspected that she feared a repetition of the scene with the carving knife.

Her hair they arranged with painstaking care, setting each curl to tumble in perfect, aggressively choreographed disarray. Her brows and lashes were blackened, her lips and cheeks reddened. The woman in the mirror, wild, voluptuous, and exotic, had the air of a corsair queen, a sense of dangerous, sweeping romance. That woman, whoever she was, was powerful and fascinating, a stranger from a far-off land.

Rhossorieth approached and stood behind her, appraising her work. She seemed satisfied, almost complacent.

"Welcome, Aearis Singeareth. Welcome to Lindon."


The Sea-Salt Girl, they called her. Singeareth. So went the whispers that floated through the court like dandelion seeds. Untraceable, feather-light rumors that alighted upon the ear and dripped heady expectation.

She had been seen upon the ferry, barefoot and half-feral. She had driven an inn full of sailors into a frenzy of revelry from which they awoke the next morning with nothing but the sweet taste of a pleasant dream. She had called down a storm to sing her to sleep. She could enslave the minds of Men and even lesser elves with but a single word. She was followed always by a pale, grim shieldmaiden and a demon dog, who haunted her footsteps, caught in the thrall of her Voice. It was said that even Lord Glorfindel, poor Lord Glorfindel, was not immune to her unnatural power. That he had passed twenty years under the eaves of her bower, entranced and insensible to duty. She was charmingly naive. She was dangerous and calculating. She was a nameless bastard. She was the exiled heir to the Numenorean throne. She was mortal. She was Elven.

"You do know how to cause a stir, Rhossorieth," said the one with the star-bright eyes. "What if the girl cannot live up to her reputation? Is she all that you say she is?"

"I do not intend to disappoint," she replied, returning his sharp smile. "She may not yet be all that I would wish. But she is a performer, and she will become what the stories say she is, or she will die trying."


The Palace of Mithlond rested upon the tallest foothill of the Blue Mountains. It floated in a wreath of shimmering mist as though nestled in the heavens and built from woven clouds. Spires of shining white stone pierced the sky recklessly, delicate and powerful. The walls were polished smooth and lustrous as a looking glass, and each pillar was carved in the likeness of a great Noldorin hero of old. Songs of power ran through the foundations of it, subtle and unbreakably strong. It was blinding. Perfect. So beautiful as to be painful to look upon.

Cestedir had departed soon after they had settled into Glorfindel's estate, carrying news of Noenor's death back to Faeleth as she waited in Imladris for her husband's return. A heavy pall stretched over the remaining three.

"You have been so very quiet, my lord," said Aearis as they approached the palace gates. After careful deliberation, Rhossorieth had determined that they would do best to arrive on horseback. A carriage was too fussy an indulgence to suit their dashing image. So they rode upon tall, proud, half-wild Lindon stallions who would bear no tack or saddle. It was extraordinarily uncomfortable.

"What would you have me say, my lady?" Glorfindel replied, his eyes fixed forward.

I would have you look at me, you obstinate bastard.

"A word or two of admiration would not go amiss. Does not Bereneth look uncommonly lovely today?"

Bereneth actually leaned over to jab Aearis hard in the ribs, leveling a warning look at her.

Don't you dare bring me into this.

"Bereneth always looks uncommonly lovely. Why should today be any different?"

"Ah, of course, your purity of mind transcends all earthly trifles. All adornment is as nothing to you, O paragon of-"

A second jab, directed at a chink in the protection of her bodice, silenced her with a sharp wince. If Glorfindel noticed the silent scuffle that ensued as Aearis tried in vain to retaliate, he made no indication, and his eyes remained firmly upon the road ahead of him.

Rhossorieth met them at the palace gates and greeted them each by name in a ringing voice. Glorfindel greeted her with the barest pretense of civility. Their horses were spirited away by undetectable servants the instant that they dismounted, and they were left standing among the elegant nobles, a sparkling sea that rippled as heads turned discreetly towards them.

As they followed Rhossorieth into the first courtyard, Aearis found herself reaching unconsciously for Bereneth's hand and stopped herself. She felt so small that she worried she might slip through a crack in the stone. But there were no cracks.

Then the song of the fountains reached her. Nine clear, ringing voices weaving an ardent harmony. The central font, carved in the image of Ulmo himself, attended by Uinen and Osse, took her breath away with the sheer scale, for it towered taller than five Men and sang out with the ferocity of a caged storm. Each of the remaining eight, arranged evenly around the octagonal courtyard, glittered with its own image of the sea, so lifelike that Aearis could almost feel the ground rolling beneath her.

But Rhossorieth led them quickly through the courtyard, nodding graciously to the courtiers who dropped into deep bows and curtseys as they passed, though their bright eyes remained fixed on the newcomers with hungry intensity.

The palace doors swung open with smooth, perfect silence. But their motion resonated through the floor and up through Aearis's feet, shuddering through her rib cage.

A strange feeling flared in her chest. Bright, and hot, and humbling. It had not the terror of love or the urgency of desire. No. With a jolt, she named it. Reverence.

The palace was no mere show of wealth or political might or even of beauty. This palace was music, so perfect in every detail that the trueness of it sang in her. It was a symphony of pure, uncorrupted power. She trembled slightly with the exhilaration of it as she followed the silver lady, heedless of the murmurs, the sidelong glances, the silk-veiled scrutiny that followed them like a spector through the halls. Heedless even of Glorfindel's palpable tension behind her, where he bristled with restrained hostility like a shackled lion.

The path was long, and her eyes became fixed, completely captured, by the figure seated at the far end of the final room. Magnificent.

He was draped upon his throne of mithril and velvet with the languid beauty of one born to greatness. His clothes were understated, but resplendent in their simplicity, serving his dazing beauty with quiet elegance. On his brow glimmered a delicate circlet constructed of Noldorin diamonds, a constellation that framed his burning eyes. King Gil-Galad, the stuff of song. The guiding light of the Noldor. The king crowned in stars.

Dimly she was aware of their names on the lips of an extraordinarily handsome herald. Singeareth, they called her here. Aearis, Gwingien, Melethien, Singeareth. So many names, none her own. But then he stood, and there fell a silence so perfect that even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

"So at last the fabled travelers come to my halls. Well met, Lady Bereneth Amathiel, daughter of the Woodland Realm. Welcome, Lady Aearis of the distant shore. And to Lord Glorfindel, Lion of Gwathlo, welcome back." This last greeting was spoken in a different tone than the others. Not quite reproving, but oddly proprietary, like a father addressing a straying son.

They knelt before him, heads bowed. She felt his approach with the same prickling instinct that might warn her of a wolf in the shadows. A pale, long-fingered hand appeared in her line of sight. She took it and rose, meeting his eyes slowly.

"Well met, your Majesty," she replied, amazed to find her voice still intact under his blazing stare. "Indeed, I am most pleased to know you by name at last. After all," she said with a smile that he matched, avid and fierce with all his teeth showing, "you still have my flute."


Author's notes:

So clearly I'm completely inventing almost everything about Lindon. As far as I know there are no detailed sources describing Gil-Galad's realm, but I would be very happy to be wrong about that if anyone can point me to material on the topic.

Also, I spent some time trying to sort through Gil-Galad's parentage, which seems to be something about which Tolkien wasn't terribly decisive. So I'm going with the account that he was the brother of Finduilas, who was killed after the sack of Nargothrond. For the curious, the pertinent story would the the Children of Hurin, either in the Silmarillion or the expanded version. It's all just very, very sad.

On another note, I highly recommend looking up videos of Argentine tango. Mostly because it's beautiful, but also because it's what I'm using as inspiration for Numenorean dancing. I like the idea of total improvisation clashing with a society where everything is choreographed by millennia of tradition.

Translations

Thalwest: steady oath

Lillameril: Dance of Roses

Singeareth: sea-salt woman