Sitting upon a window ledge, they watched the dance from high up, an endless circle caught in endless motion, large, then tight, then broken and enlarged and then reformed again, always moving, changing, strange, surprising, mocking the eyes; always unexpected, and nevertheless perfect.
Russandol was just come of age some weeks ago, and wore his braid proudly, along with the new black velvet ribbon Nerdanel had bought him for the occasion.
He watched the dancers, and found himself tapping the fingers of his left hand on the wall on which leant, because the right one was involved in holding a flute of champagne. Following every note of the music. There, on the harp. He had not brought his harp, for he had not expected to play it; but soon his eyelids were dropping over his pupils and both his hands moved along the flow of the music, making up as he went, never making wrong. He had not heard this song before. But it had to continue, it had to go on like this, just like this; and nothing else would have felt right. There a si, there a fa; a volee of sharps here for the most exquisite modulation; there a pause, all breaths held within the ballroom, all feet stayed, the dance frozen by this short silence; and then all over again, the circle broken this time, one end chasing another; like a serpent seeking to bite its own tail.
Amused, Russandol stared at his oblivious brother out of the corner of his eye, holding both the glasses of champagne in his hand, taking slow sips from one or the other at times, because he was not really sure anymore which one had been whose.
And then, an abrupt gasp issued from Maglor's throat, his eyes starting open, and his hands hung lamely in the air in front of him while far away from them the music continued playing and the ballroom twirled to its rhythm. After a long while of staring off into the distance, Maglor shut his eyes and shook his head vigorously, his yet unbound locks flying about his head.
Slightly concerned by his younger brother's strange behaviour, -and yet only slightly, for Maglor's behaviour had always been somewhat peculiar to say the least- Maedhros rested a tentative hand on his shoulder.
"You alright, Cano?"
He slowly nodded, and an uncertain smile crossed his lips.
"I'm fine. Just an erring in the music's flow." He paused for a second, passed his tongue over his lips which felt dry somehow, even though they were not. "Ridiculous as it may sound, this modulation ended half a measure too early."
Russandol laughed, which made him slightly embarrassed, and then the lazy serpent at their feet came apart, breaking into couples, and each individual ring soon gained a life of its own, spinning endlessly upon itself. His eyes strayed idly across the ballroom. His father there, tall and raven-dark haired, easy to spot; his face set in an engaging smile which somehow seems to be more deadly serious then anything else. A blonde woman was hung on his arm, whom Maglor could not at first identify. Another blonde head was spotted not too far from them, but the distance quickly growing between both couples as they revolved and turned: it was the little Tyelkormo, twenty-eight of age, twirling in his mother's arms; his face a mask of pure delight as he clung to her dress. The sound of their laughter, of both mother and son, could be heard all across the hall; above the music to Maglor's ears, fairer than it at the moment, for the music displeased him.
He watched them for a while. Nerdanel's dress was a rich emerald green, embroidered with gold; and on her neck Feanor's newest creation. Her long, flaringly red hair was unbound, neatly pinned down by golden slides of his father's fashion; but as was its habit had begun to wear itself loose. Her youngest son wore clothes of a similar shade, of a simple, yet elegant and highly refined fashion, but his were lined in silver and not gold.
And then the dance stopped, the last note of the music hanging in the air, a sharp, shrill sound like that of a miniature silver bell, like that of a faint, distant scream of terror or pleasure; and then broken by the loud chattering that rolls and swells like a storm from the formerly silent crowd, the pattern of the dance dissolved by people walking from the dance floor in every direction. He extended a hand towards Russandol, who handed him back his flute, and only when he brought it to his lips did he realize that it had been emptied; and rolled his eyes at his madly grinning brother as he was moved himself to smiling by the other's expression.
His eyes strayed once more to the ball room as his fingers toyed with the exquisitely made glass of champagne. There was his father again. Courteous as always, but a little more rigid than usual maybe.
He nearly fell from the window ledge as he suddenly caught a better look of the blonde lady on his arm, however, and had to lash down with his luckily fast reflexes to keep the ornamented flute from crashing into the marble floor. For she was Indis, wife of Finwe, Queen of the Noldor; and a desperate smile was in her eyes.
