Chapter One:
"Eyes Meet Eyes"
The clay was soft under her fingers, yielding, taking shape as she willed it to. Brown earth and clear water, not much more than mud at first, but under her hands it seemed to glow with the light of possibilities. With quick motions, seasoned by confidence and experience, she drew in it shapes and lines, casting upon it a semblance of reality, or maybe rescuing the little pieces of reality that lay hidden within it. A rock pile ceases to be a rock pile the moment a single man contemplates it, bearing within him the image of a cathedral.
"Child, have you heard a word I said?"
She looked up from her work for one moment, casting a glance across the room, her fingers still working relentlessly with a will of their own. At a wooden desk twenty feet away, an Elven boy about her age grudgingly looked from his books to the face of his teacher.
"I'm listening, Master Mahtan," he said gloomily.
She smiled and leaned back over the clay, perfecting an edge, a smooth surface, adding new impressions in layer upon layer slowly making up the whole. Her father, who would not normally take up the task of teaching, sighed as he was forced to scold his student for what she counted to be the fifth time in the last hour.
"My boy, if you have not the patience to study, you cannot expect to become an artisan. Perhaps you should consider another trade…"
Silently she looked on, taking in every subtle shifting in body and mood as the young student's eyes grew wide. The clay was cool and moist in her hands, comforting in its feel, taking shape as life does, slowly, with every little touch changing it but slightly, building toward the complete creation of the ending. She drew the shape of flesh and bone, carefully, lovingly.
"Another trade? No, sir, this is all I wish to do, now and forever…" a touch of a smile lit up the teacher's face. His hand rose somewhat, as if aching to stroke the boy's dark hair. "But it drives me mad, sitting here all day over this book or another. Can I not learn from doing?"
The teacher sighed again, but this time with gentle understanding. She turned her attention to the exquisite details required of the features slowly forming in the clay, the exactness of the lines of the face, the unique shape of the nose, cheekbones and lips. The eyes she left to the end.
"I understand if you grow bored," the teacher said softly, smiling at his frustrated charge. The boy's hands slipped over the pages of the book, he was unconsciously chewing on the end of the pen, radiating restlessness and the energy of unrestrained youth. With painful attention to the least of hints, she saw something more in the way he moved and the tone of his voice, something that seemed to come also upon the shaping clay.
"It is not quite boredom," the student confessed. He had large hands, and the fingers tangled and untangled, as if trying to express what words could not. "I feel as if something burns inside me, and every hour I sit here makes it more painful to bear. I have no name to call it, but it's there."
She looked to the teacher a moment as he frowned, following the exchange, the shifting of the glances, the cycle of action and reaction. Her fingers worked quickly over the clay, preserving emotion, drawing upon the strange grace in the boy's face as he looked for answers that were not to be found. Her fingers sank in the yielding material, drawing fine lines, feeling it as if it was a part of her, breathing with it, thinking with it, finding the exact touch, the exact shape. Her work was almost done.
The teacher's eyes lingered on the student a short while more. Finally he spoke, quietly, but not without fondness. "Close this book and go play a while, little Spirit of Fire."
The boy's eyes lit up. Quickly he slammed the heavy book closed and pushed back the chair, then sped out of the room, laughing as he opened the door and the light of the golden Laurelin poured in. One moment he stood in the doorway breathing in, and then was gone.
The teacher chuckled, moving away from the desk to stand by his daughter's side as she placed the last touches on what was no longer simply a chunk of clay. He lay a hand on her shoulder and she looked up to him, smiling.
"It came out very well, didn't it, Father?" she asked.
He nodded proudly, studying the statue. In the clay was depicted his young student, head leaning on one hand, staring upward at thin air. The clay eyes were distant, unfocused, a dreamlike air spreading from them upon the creation as a whole. A low laugh escaped the teacher.
"Little gem, he never looked more alive."
**********************
The coppery glint in her hair was like a constant reminder of starlight. He had never seen anyone with hair quite like that. His father's new wife had hair as golden as the younger Tree, and now her young son had it too. It was very pretty, but common enough. He had never seen anyone with such flames burning in their hair. When she tied gems in it, he thought it would blind him.
His hands unconsciously stroked the piece of raw copper they held. He could make her a necklace to fit that fiery hair, or a pin to hold it that would disappear in it completely. Or he could etch the image of her curls into a flat metallic surface, or twine copper as she twined her hair into a braid. The possibilities were endless.
He could not take his eyes off her as she rushed back and forth in the vast workshop, bearing once a tool, once some water, sometimes stopping to smile at the apprentices. Her hair catching the firelight brought to his mind the image of a net catching the glint of lamplight over water.
The metal dropped from his hands, and instead he reached into a bucket filled with shards of colorful glass. He pulled out a bleeding hand clutching a blue shard tightly. Copper and blue went well together. Fine glass could focus light or bend it, maybe even capture it as well.
She was standing in the other side of the large room, talking merrily to one of his fellow students, who proudly displayed to her a complex web of silver and gemstones. The work was delicate but unoriginal, he observed, the gems were finely cut but completely ordinary. She smiled in delight as she was handed it and lifted it up to the lamps so patches of glinting colored light shone on her face. She was not very beautiful, but there was a certain quality to her heart-shaped face that was unique. Her eyes were not the ordinary Noldorin gray, but rather with a hint of blue in them, complimenting her hair. Blue and gray, he liked the combination, though silver may do better…
Silver. He fingered the glass. Silver was a good idea. Maybe if he melted them together they would take a shape to his liking. Or they could be ruined both and smell terribly enough to attract the attention of the workshop in its entire, displaying his folly for all to see.
He picked a good container and carefully melted the blue glass into it, wondering how much silver he could get away with taking.
She was bringing water to her father the artisan, his teacher, to pour over a metalwork he could not see as it cooled. Steam rose from the white-hot metal, it looked like a musical instrument. She chuckled as she waved her hand to drive the steam away. It settled in her hair making it glint even more. Her eyes were bright in the firelight. He wondered how they would look outside, in the light of the Silver Tree. Maybe they would burn like the fire does, and the light in her hair…
It was a good idea. Her eyes, her hair, all may light up like candles. He shaped the shell of the silver-and-glass mixture as it cooled, then poured some other molten element over it. The gentle facets of the diamond-like structures were forever captured, and light glinted off them.
The warm glow of the fire was playing over her, twining itself in her white garments, making every shadow of her more pronounced. She was about his age, her body not quite yet curving, but she was beautifully shaped half lost in the shadows, not quite as tall or slender as one her age ought to be. Rounder limbs, rougher hands, different eyes, different, that was the word.
He let the fire round up the pale white gem he made, giving it the shape of a drop of water upon the pavement after a light rain. It would not do to cut it as jewels were cut, it did not fit. It would be different, this new thing, his new creation.
With a laugh, bidding her father farewell, she rushed out to the starlit street. He snatched the gem that was still warm and hurried after her, hoping for one last glimpse of the marvelous hair and gleeful eyes. The gem was a pale white even in the firelight and faded in the darkness of the halls. She was out of sight. He kicked the wall in frustration, and stepped out into the starlight.
He opened his fist, and the gem burst into light, blue and silver fire shining from within.
*******************
She did not actually plan to take the shorter way home. She could wander for days in the forests around Tuna, where the sky was open between the canopies and the light of the Trees was more alive. But when the evening started to descend as Laurelin slowly faded, clouds gathered and cruel winds began to blow, and she was chilled to the bone in her light dress. So she started on a light run between the branches, drawing a straight line, heading home.
Soon there was rain pouring down, water settling in her coppery hair and soaking her clothes until they stuck to her body. She gritted her teeth and ran faster. The wind tore through the trees, slammed rainwater and leafs in her face. Once she almost stumbled and fell headfirst into the mud. The clouds could not darken Telperion's light but they could hide the stars. Lightning was breaking and thunder. She was shivering as she ran with cold and fear. She quickly raised one hand to wipe her eyes. Battling not to sob, she started to sing.
"But then she stopped to see
Atop the hill
A young man standing, arms outstretched against the chill
Staring up at the storming sky as if entranced
Then he danced, he danced."
So she sang loudly between gasps of frozen air. She did not compose that song, but she seemed to be the only one who liked it. It brought her courage in the dark. It warmed her heart as she was forced to run up the small hills dotting one clearing in the forest. She allowed her mind to slip, thinking she was seeing the image of the Storm Dancer atop one of them. The thought of it sent a chill of fear and pleasure down her back. Could it be?
But of course, it could not; it was just a song, a story told to thrill young maidens. She was only imagining the dark silhouette posed firmly on a distant hilltop; it could not really be him…
Could it?
She froze in her track. She thought she would fall. She was not imagining this.
He was standing there, the Storm Dancer, just like in the song. A young Quendi, no older than her, but tall and beautiful under the hammering rain. He stood holding out his hands, his head held back, eyes closed, breathing slowly. His charcoal-black hair cascaded down his back, his face was sculpted of fine marble, and in them was silent ecstasy.
He was so beautiful it hurt.
She heard the verses torn from her lips.
1
2 "She could not move, could not breathe in her surprise
The storm ignored for the love and madness in his eyes…"
And it was all that, and more.
She did not know how long she stood transfixed, staring at him as he danced to the music of the storm. She knew he could not see her, he could not know that he watched, but for some reason it didn't seem to matter that she did. All the world may come and watch, and it would still only be him and the storm.
She sang louder and louder, though she was growing afraid of the words.
"He touched her face, she closed her eyes,
In his fingertips she felt the pulse of the open skies.
Then he held her hand, and he held her glance,
And they danced, oh, they danced."
As she sang the last note, he abruptly stopped. He started turning toward her slowly.
She almost shouted, but in the end simply slipped away, disappearing into the rain.
********************
He didn't think he could take it for much longer.
His new half-brother seemed to be able to do only one thing, and that was wail. The golden-haired child, which all of Tirion found so charming, wailed for hours at end, all night and well into the morning hours. The boy did not get one moment of real sleep. He could have been dozing off on his feet if he was not so angry.
The double-cursed baby's wails managed somehow to fill the entire outrageously vast house of his family. There was not one silent corner to sit and read, write or play, and the concentration required for working his art was entirely out of the question. His father's wife was helpless to silent her child, and his father had long since given up of any semblance of peace. 'I wasn't like this when I was that age', the boy thought bitterly.
So he fled the house and wandered aimlessly, kicking every stone that happened in his path, finding grim amusement in throwing stones at trees to drive the birds away and glaring at small children until they cried. If he had to suffer, he was determined not to suffer alone.
If only he had the least love for the newborn infant…
He muttered a few foul words and settled in the shade of one wall, letting his dark hair, which his foster mother insisted on cutting, fall on his face.
It was then that, when he lifted his gaze, he saw her.
The copper-haired girl. She stood on a balcony high in the building he sat opposite of, leaning on the parapet, her eyes closed and her face turned westward.
She was standing in a particular spot and angle that made the light of distant Laurelin fall directly on her face. Silently she basked in it, smiling at the warmth. He could see her breathing in a slow rhythm, the rising and falling of her chest, could see how her entire body relaxed as the light covered it all. She was magnificent as she stood there with the flawless radiance upon her, surrounded by an aura of beautiful peace, fragile and timeless.
She breathed in and out, letting out a soft moan of innocent pleasure. The light played upon her face, it seemed to hold her like a lover. The balcony, the light, her face, they seemed not to exist in reality, rather to be taken for one perfect moment from a picture or a song, a glimpse of ethereal beauty, of some ideal ever unachieved in life. But she was there before him, flesh and blood and light.
He sat in the shadow, gaping, eyes wide, unable to look away from her. A warmness was flowing in his veins, filling his limbs, though the hot embers in his gut were swiftly cooling. She took him away from the world where his mother was gone and his father wedded another and he could not even work his own art in his own home. Her perfection was a shield around him, or a comforting hand.
He longed for her for a few precious minutes, but then she straightened with a sigh and turned around, walking back inside the house.
His shoulders slumped and gaze dropped, and one moment he almost burst into tears. Then with quiet resolution, he walked out of the shadow of the wall and settled again by the opposite one. He closed his eyes and let the light wash over him, breathing in slow rhythm, feeling the soothing warmth.
He fell asleep leaning on the wall, smiling.
***************
It was the night of Yestare, the first day of the year, which the Elves of Tirion enjoyed celebrating in as big a feast as they could prepare. The fair city of the Eldar was full of the sound of laughter, song and joyous conversation and alit with many lamps enhancing and complimenting the light of Telperion. Ribbons and flags waved in the pleasant wind. Within the halls of the Mindon Eldalieva, the great ball had just began, open to any and all who wished to dance until the light of the New Year would dawn from the west.
She made her way slowly through the crowd, careful not to bump into anyone too important. Though her father the Master-Smith was well renowned in Tirion, she herself was still only a child. All the greatest of the Eldar were in the halls that night…
She spotted the tall form of her father on the other side of the room, conversing with one of his fellow artisans, no doubt. She thought she would feel more comfortable in his presence, if she could ever feel comfortable at all in this crowd. The many Elves made her nervous, and they were only the start of it. Why, rumor said the Lady Varda herself had come to the city. Her heart leaped to her throat at the mere thought.
So she progressed slowly, trying to concentrate on the music and the lovely smell of fine food and wine. She studied the many faces in the crowd. Once her gaze wandered and she found herself looking directly at the far end of the hall, where Finwe the Lord of the Noldor and Ingwe the High King were sitting with their wives, laughing. The former held in his lap a small boy with golden hair and large, curious blue eyes.
There was another child by the Noldoran's chair, older and darker, looking around the room with a bored gaze. One moment he lifted his eyes and met hers, and she distantly felt herself stumble.
The dreamer… the Storm Dancer!
She averted her eyes quickly, but he was still looking at her, seeming transfixed. The boredom was gone from his eyes and he straightened, straining to keep her within his sight as she disappeared into the crowd. He could not be mistaken, he thought, it was her, the copper-haired girl, the spirit of peace incarnate. He almost moved forward, hoping to find her, talk to her...
But when he could move, she was already gone.
He sighed, and resumed scanning the crowd with an expression swiftly turning from boredom to contempt.
She moved faster, breathing hard. She could not let him find her, could not let the reality of him shatter the wonderful illusion.
Her father spotted her as she approached him, beaming and holding out his hand. She took it gratefully and came to stand by his side, smiling as he proudly declared her to his companion.
"You have not met my daughter, have you, Ereglin? Not thirty years of age is she and already crafting such marvels as you have never imagined! Come, child," he smiled at her, stroking her back "would you like to meet the Kings?"
She let out a chirp of delight despite herself. "Oh, Father, really?"
"Would I lie?" he laughed. "Our Lord Finwe's firstborn studies under me. I believe I can get away with a few friendly words." He placed an arm around her shoulders and led her through the crowd. She felt her heart quicken as they approached the two Elven Kings, marveling at their grace, the clearness of their eyes, their laughter. As they approached, Finwe rose from his seat, placing the golden-haired child in his wife's arms, and walked toward them, grinning.
"I believe you promised to introduce me to your daughter, rusco," he said lightly. She felt herself blush to the pointed tips of her ears. 'Promised to introduce…?'
"And to my promise I keep, sire," her father replied, returning the King's smile. "This is her, unless I have unwittingly confused her with another russet-topped maiden. They grow on trees, you know." They both laughed. She bowed her head, feeling her cheeks tingling with heat, delighting in the presence of the greatest of her people.
Finwe studied her a short while. "Ah, you are a pretty one," he said at last, now smiling at her alone. "Have you met my son? You two seem to be of the same age, and methinks you may find him pleasant company."
"I have not, my Lord," she said, almost wincing at the half-truth.
Finwe nodded. "Then now you shall," he answered gleefully, and looking back to the throne called out: "Come here a moment, naur hen-nin."
She forced herself to look up. The King' son, the Storm Dancer, came forward reluctantly, and their eyes met. Something pierced her to the core. He recognized her as she did him, from some slip of reality that seemed like a dream they both shared.
Their fathers seemed not to notice the exchange at all. After a moment, when neither she nor he said one word, her father placed a hand on her shoulder and gestured toward the King's son.
"Nerdanel, meet Feanor."
To Be Continued…
Notes on this chapter:
Our heroes at this point are the Elven equivalent of fourteen year olds.
The golden-haired child is Fingolfin (yes, Nemis, *my* Fingolfin is blond).
Note that the last sentence in the first paragraph, as much as I wish it to be, is not mine, rather a quote. Antoine de Saint-Exupery is the genius who thought it up.
The title is a nod to any and all ElfQuest fans in the crowd. "When eyes meet eyes" refers to the phenomenon called "Recognition", in which two genetically compatible Elves are compelled to procreate, and are bound soul- to-soul in the process.
"Naur hen-nin" – literally "my fire-child". "Rusco" was Mahtan's nickname, meaning "fox". My Quneya is flawed at best, so please don't be too hard on my feeble attempts. I won't make them often.
The song quoted in the third segment is Tom Smith's "Storm Dancing". Before I'm assaulted for inserting 20th century music into a Silmarillion story – it's filk, it's different.
Thanks to Nemis for the beta-reading!
"Eyes Meet Eyes"
The clay was soft under her fingers, yielding, taking shape as she willed it to. Brown earth and clear water, not much more than mud at first, but under her hands it seemed to glow with the light of possibilities. With quick motions, seasoned by confidence and experience, she drew in it shapes and lines, casting upon it a semblance of reality, or maybe rescuing the little pieces of reality that lay hidden within it. A rock pile ceases to be a rock pile the moment a single man contemplates it, bearing within him the image of a cathedral.
"Child, have you heard a word I said?"
She looked up from her work for one moment, casting a glance across the room, her fingers still working relentlessly with a will of their own. At a wooden desk twenty feet away, an Elven boy about her age grudgingly looked from his books to the face of his teacher.
"I'm listening, Master Mahtan," he said gloomily.
She smiled and leaned back over the clay, perfecting an edge, a smooth surface, adding new impressions in layer upon layer slowly making up the whole. Her father, who would not normally take up the task of teaching, sighed as he was forced to scold his student for what she counted to be the fifth time in the last hour.
"My boy, if you have not the patience to study, you cannot expect to become an artisan. Perhaps you should consider another trade…"
Silently she looked on, taking in every subtle shifting in body and mood as the young student's eyes grew wide. The clay was cool and moist in her hands, comforting in its feel, taking shape as life does, slowly, with every little touch changing it but slightly, building toward the complete creation of the ending. She drew the shape of flesh and bone, carefully, lovingly.
"Another trade? No, sir, this is all I wish to do, now and forever…" a touch of a smile lit up the teacher's face. His hand rose somewhat, as if aching to stroke the boy's dark hair. "But it drives me mad, sitting here all day over this book or another. Can I not learn from doing?"
The teacher sighed again, but this time with gentle understanding. She turned her attention to the exquisite details required of the features slowly forming in the clay, the exactness of the lines of the face, the unique shape of the nose, cheekbones and lips. The eyes she left to the end.
"I understand if you grow bored," the teacher said softly, smiling at his frustrated charge. The boy's hands slipped over the pages of the book, he was unconsciously chewing on the end of the pen, radiating restlessness and the energy of unrestrained youth. With painful attention to the least of hints, she saw something more in the way he moved and the tone of his voice, something that seemed to come also upon the shaping clay.
"It is not quite boredom," the student confessed. He had large hands, and the fingers tangled and untangled, as if trying to express what words could not. "I feel as if something burns inside me, and every hour I sit here makes it more painful to bear. I have no name to call it, but it's there."
She looked to the teacher a moment as he frowned, following the exchange, the shifting of the glances, the cycle of action and reaction. Her fingers worked quickly over the clay, preserving emotion, drawing upon the strange grace in the boy's face as he looked for answers that were not to be found. Her fingers sank in the yielding material, drawing fine lines, feeling it as if it was a part of her, breathing with it, thinking with it, finding the exact touch, the exact shape. Her work was almost done.
The teacher's eyes lingered on the student a short while more. Finally he spoke, quietly, but not without fondness. "Close this book and go play a while, little Spirit of Fire."
The boy's eyes lit up. Quickly he slammed the heavy book closed and pushed back the chair, then sped out of the room, laughing as he opened the door and the light of the golden Laurelin poured in. One moment he stood in the doorway breathing in, and then was gone.
The teacher chuckled, moving away from the desk to stand by his daughter's side as she placed the last touches on what was no longer simply a chunk of clay. He lay a hand on her shoulder and she looked up to him, smiling.
"It came out very well, didn't it, Father?" she asked.
He nodded proudly, studying the statue. In the clay was depicted his young student, head leaning on one hand, staring upward at thin air. The clay eyes were distant, unfocused, a dreamlike air spreading from them upon the creation as a whole. A low laugh escaped the teacher.
"Little gem, he never looked more alive."
**********************
The coppery glint in her hair was like a constant reminder of starlight. He had never seen anyone with hair quite like that. His father's new wife had hair as golden as the younger Tree, and now her young son had it too. It was very pretty, but common enough. He had never seen anyone with such flames burning in their hair. When she tied gems in it, he thought it would blind him.
His hands unconsciously stroked the piece of raw copper they held. He could make her a necklace to fit that fiery hair, or a pin to hold it that would disappear in it completely. Or he could etch the image of her curls into a flat metallic surface, or twine copper as she twined her hair into a braid. The possibilities were endless.
He could not take his eyes off her as she rushed back and forth in the vast workshop, bearing once a tool, once some water, sometimes stopping to smile at the apprentices. Her hair catching the firelight brought to his mind the image of a net catching the glint of lamplight over water.
The metal dropped from his hands, and instead he reached into a bucket filled with shards of colorful glass. He pulled out a bleeding hand clutching a blue shard tightly. Copper and blue went well together. Fine glass could focus light or bend it, maybe even capture it as well.
She was standing in the other side of the large room, talking merrily to one of his fellow students, who proudly displayed to her a complex web of silver and gemstones. The work was delicate but unoriginal, he observed, the gems were finely cut but completely ordinary. She smiled in delight as she was handed it and lifted it up to the lamps so patches of glinting colored light shone on her face. She was not very beautiful, but there was a certain quality to her heart-shaped face that was unique. Her eyes were not the ordinary Noldorin gray, but rather with a hint of blue in them, complimenting her hair. Blue and gray, he liked the combination, though silver may do better…
Silver. He fingered the glass. Silver was a good idea. Maybe if he melted them together they would take a shape to his liking. Or they could be ruined both and smell terribly enough to attract the attention of the workshop in its entire, displaying his folly for all to see.
He picked a good container and carefully melted the blue glass into it, wondering how much silver he could get away with taking.
She was bringing water to her father the artisan, his teacher, to pour over a metalwork he could not see as it cooled. Steam rose from the white-hot metal, it looked like a musical instrument. She chuckled as she waved her hand to drive the steam away. It settled in her hair making it glint even more. Her eyes were bright in the firelight. He wondered how they would look outside, in the light of the Silver Tree. Maybe they would burn like the fire does, and the light in her hair…
It was a good idea. Her eyes, her hair, all may light up like candles. He shaped the shell of the silver-and-glass mixture as it cooled, then poured some other molten element over it. The gentle facets of the diamond-like structures were forever captured, and light glinted off them.
The warm glow of the fire was playing over her, twining itself in her white garments, making every shadow of her more pronounced. She was about his age, her body not quite yet curving, but she was beautifully shaped half lost in the shadows, not quite as tall or slender as one her age ought to be. Rounder limbs, rougher hands, different eyes, different, that was the word.
He let the fire round up the pale white gem he made, giving it the shape of a drop of water upon the pavement after a light rain. It would not do to cut it as jewels were cut, it did not fit. It would be different, this new thing, his new creation.
With a laugh, bidding her father farewell, she rushed out to the starlit street. He snatched the gem that was still warm and hurried after her, hoping for one last glimpse of the marvelous hair and gleeful eyes. The gem was a pale white even in the firelight and faded in the darkness of the halls. She was out of sight. He kicked the wall in frustration, and stepped out into the starlight.
He opened his fist, and the gem burst into light, blue and silver fire shining from within.
*******************
She did not actually plan to take the shorter way home. She could wander for days in the forests around Tuna, where the sky was open between the canopies and the light of the Trees was more alive. But when the evening started to descend as Laurelin slowly faded, clouds gathered and cruel winds began to blow, and she was chilled to the bone in her light dress. So she started on a light run between the branches, drawing a straight line, heading home.
Soon there was rain pouring down, water settling in her coppery hair and soaking her clothes until they stuck to her body. She gritted her teeth and ran faster. The wind tore through the trees, slammed rainwater and leafs in her face. Once she almost stumbled and fell headfirst into the mud. The clouds could not darken Telperion's light but they could hide the stars. Lightning was breaking and thunder. She was shivering as she ran with cold and fear. She quickly raised one hand to wipe her eyes. Battling not to sob, she started to sing.
"But then she stopped to see
Atop the hill
A young man standing, arms outstretched against the chill
Staring up at the storming sky as if entranced
Then he danced, he danced."
So she sang loudly between gasps of frozen air. She did not compose that song, but she seemed to be the only one who liked it. It brought her courage in the dark. It warmed her heart as she was forced to run up the small hills dotting one clearing in the forest. She allowed her mind to slip, thinking she was seeing the image of the Storm Dancer atop one of them. The thought of it sent a chill of fear and pleasure down her back. Could it be?
But of course, it could not; it was just a song, a story told to thrill young maidens. She was only imagining the dark silhouette posed firmly on a distant hilltop; it could not really be him…
Could it?
She froze in her track. She thought she would fall. She was not imagining this.
He was standing there, the Storm Dancer, just like in the song. A young Quendi, no older than her, but tall and beautiful under the hammering rain. He stood holding out his hands, his head held back, eyes closed, breathing slowly. His charcoal-black hair cascaded down his back, his face was sculpted of fine marble, and in them was silent ecstasy.
He was so beautiful it hurt.
She heard the verses torn from her lips.
1
2 "She could not move, could not breathe in her surprise
The storm ignored for the love and madness in his eyes…"
And it was all that, and more.
She did not know how long she stood transfixed, staring at him as he danced to the music of the storm. She knew he could not see her, he could not know that he watched, but for some reason it didn't seem to matter that she did. All the world may come and watch, and it would still only be him and the storm.
She sang louder and louder, though she was growing afraid of the words.
"He touched her face, she closed her eyes,
In his fingertips she felt the pulse of the open skies.
Then he held her hand, and he held her glance,
And they danced, oh, they danced."
As she sang the last note, he abruptly stopped. He started turning toward her slowly.
She almost shouted, but in the end simply slipped away, disappearing into the rain.
********************
He didn't think he could take it for much longer.
His new half-brother seemed to be able to do only one thing, and that was wail. The golden-haired child, which all of Tirion found so charming, wailed for hours at end, all night and well into the morning hours. The boy did not get one moment of real sleep. He could have been dozing off on his feet if he was not so angry.
The double-cursed baby's wails managed somehow to fill the entire outrageously vast house of his family. There was not one silent corner to sit and read, write or play, and the concentration required for working his art was entirely out of the question. His father's wife was helpless to silent her child, and his father had long since given up of any semblance of peace. 'I wasn't like this when I was that age', the boy thought bitterly.
So he fled the house and wandered aimlessly, kicking every stone that happened in his path, finding grim amusement in throwing stones at trees to drive the birds away and glaring at small children until they cried. If he had to suffer, he was determined not to suffer alone.
If only he had the least love for the newborn infant…
He muttered a few foul words and settled in the shade of one wall, letting his dark hair, which his foster mother insisted on cutting, fall on his face.
It was then that, when he lifted his gaze, he saw her.
The copper-haired girl. She stood on a balcony high in the building he sat opposite of, leaning on the parapet, her eyes closed and her face turned westward.
She was standing in a particular spot and angle that made the light of distant Laurelin fall directly on her face. Silently she basked in it, smiling at the warmth. He could see her breathing in a slow rhythm, the rising and falling of her chest, could see how her entire body relaxed as the light covered it all. She was magnificent as she stood there with the flawless radiance upon her, surrounded by an aura of beautiful peace, fragile and timeless.
She breathed in and out, letting out a soft moan of innocent pleasure. The light played upon her face, it seemed to hold her like a lover. The balcony, the light, her face, they seemed not to exist in reality, rather to be taken for one perfect moment from a picture or a song, a glimpse of ethereal beauty, of some ideal ever unachieved in life. But she was there before him, flesh and blood and light.
He sat in the shadow, gaping, eyes wide, unable to look away from her. A warmness was flowing in his veins, filling his limbs, though the hot embers in his gut were swiftly cooling. She took him away from the world where his mother was gone and his father wedded another and he could not even work his own art in his own home. Her perfection was a shield around him, or a comforting hand.
He longed for her for a few precious minutes, but then she straightened with a sigh and turned around, walking back inside the house.
His shoulders slumped and gaze dropped, and one moment he almost burst into tears. Then with quiet resolution, he walked out of the shadow of the wall and settled again by the opposite one. He closed his eyes and let the light wash over him, breathing in slow rhythm, feeling the soothing warmth.
He fell asleep leaning on the wall, smiling.
***************
It was the night of Yestare, the first day of the year, which the Elves of Tirion enjoyed celebrating in as big a feast as they could prepare. The fair city of the Eldar was full of the sound of laughter, song and joyous conversation and alit with many lamps enhancing and complimenting the light of Telperion. Ribbons and flags waved in the pleasant wind. Within the halls of the Mindon Eldalieva, the great ball had just began, open to any and all who wished to dance until the light of the New Year would dawn from the west.
She made her way slowly through the crowd, careful not to bump into anyone too important. Though her father the Master-Smith was well renowned in Tirion, she herself was still only a child. All the greatest of the Eldar were in the halls that night…
She spotted the tall form of her father on the other side of the room, conversing with one of his fellow artisans, no doubt. She thought she would feel more comfortable in his presence, if she could ever feel comfortable at all in this crowd. The many Elves made her nervous, and they were only the start of it. Why, rumor said the Lady Varda herself had come to the city. Her heart leaped to her throat at the mere thought.
So she progressed slowly, trying to concentrate on the music and the lovely smell of fine food and wine. She studied the many faces in the crowd. Once her gaze wandered and she found herself looking directly at the far end of the hall, where Finwe the Lord of the Noldor and Ingwe the High King were sitting with their wives, laughing. The former held in his lap a small boy with golden hair and large, curious blue eyes.
There was another child by the Noldoran's chair, older and darker, looking around the room with a bored gaze. One moment he lifted his eyes and met hers, and she distantly felt herself stumble.
The dreamer… the Storm Dancer!
She averted her eyes quickly, but he was still looking at her, seeming transfixed. The boredom was gone from his eyes and he straightened, straining to keep her within his sight as she disappeared into the crowd. He could not be mistaken, he thought, it was her, the copper-haired girl, the spirit of peace incarnate. He almost moved forward, hoping to find her, talk to her...
But when he could move, she was already gone.
He sighed, and resumed scanning the crowd with an expression swiftly turning from boredom to contempt.
She moved faster, breathing hard. She could not let him find her, could not let the reality of him shatter the wonderful illusion.
Her father spotted her as she approached him, beaming and holding out his hand. She took it gratefully and came to stand by his side, smiling as he proudly declared her to his companion.
"You have not met my daughter, have you, Ereglin? Not thirty years of age is she and already crafting such marvels as you have never imagined! Come, child," he smiled at her, stroking her back "would you like to meet the Kings?"
She let out a chirp of delight despite herself. "Oh, Father, really?"
"Would I lie?" he laughed. "Our Lord Finwe's firstborn studies under me. I believe I can get away with a few friendly words." He placed an arm around her shoulders and led her through the crowd. She felt her heart quicken as they approached the two Elven Kings, marveling at their grace, the clearness of their eyes, their laughter. As they approached, Finwe rose from his seat, placing the golden-haired child in his wife's arms, and walked toward them, grinning.
"I believe you promised to introduce me to your daughter, rusco," he said lightly. She felt herself blush to the pointed tips of her ears. 'Promised to introduce…?'
"And to my promise I keep, sire," her father replied, returning the King's smile. "This is her, unless I have unwittingly confused her with another russet-topped maiden. They grow on trees, you know." They both laughed. She bowed her head, feeling her cheeks tingling with heat, delighting in the presence of the greatest of her people.
Finwe studied her a short while. "Ah, you are a pretty one," he said at last, now smiling at her alone. "Have you met my son? You two seem to be of the same age, and methinks you may find him pleasant company."
"I have not, my Lord," she said, almost wincing at the half-truth.
Finwe nodded. "Then now you shall," he answered gleefully, and looking back to the throne called out: "Come here a moment, naur hen-nin."
She forced herself to look up. The King' son, the Storm Dancer, came forward reluctantly, and their eyes met. Something pierced her to the core. He recognized her as she did him, from some slip of reality that seemed like a dream they both shared.
Their fathers seemed not to notice the exchange at all. After a moment, when neither she nor he said one word, her father placed a hand on her shoulder and gestured toward the King's son.
"Nerdanel, meet Feanor."
To Be Continued…
Notes on this chapter:
Our heroes at this point are the Elven equivalent of fourteen year olds.
The golden-haired child is Fingolfin (yes, Nemis, *my* Fingolfin is blond).
Note that the last sentence in the first paragraph, as much as I wish it to be, is not mine, rather a quote. Antoine de Saint-Exupery is the genius who thought it up.
The title is a nod to any and all ElfQuest fans in the crowd. "When eyes meet eyes" refers to the phenomenon called "Recognition", in which two genetically compatible Elves are compelled to procreate, and are bound soul- to-soul in the process.
"Naur hen-nin" – literally "my fire-child". "Rusco" was Mahtan's nickname, meaning "fox". My Quneya is flawed at best, so please don't be too hard on my feeble attempts. I won't make them often.
The song quoted in the third segment is Tom Smith's "Storm Dancing". Before I'm assaulted for inserting 20th century music into a Silmarillion story – it's filk, it's different.
Thanks to Nemis for the beta-reading!
