disclaimer.
All belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien and Peter Jackson.
You meet her on the balcony, sneaking away from your father's ball with the ease of someone long used to escaping various social functions, and you expect to be alone; but she is already there, her back to you as she stands guard over the shadowed fringes of the forest the press the closest to the rocky walls of the fortress-like palace. She is leaning forward, elbows propped up on the the balcony railing and her spine gracefully arched, illuminated in the weak, silvery light of the Moon. The colour of restraint, the colour of duty, you observe; but you also observe that she looks more goddess than Elf and that she is as alluring to you as a candle is to a moth.
Her profile is wreathed in a crown of flame, her lithe build draped in frost-blue silks that pool around her like the fall of a waterfall and, when she turns her head slightly at the sound of your muffled approach, her eyes are the burning kiss of early Spring, verdant and alive. If you could capture any moment in time as a painting, it would be this one. You'd keep it near your heart, cherishing it until the edges faded and time ate away at it, all the while knowing that the paint itself couldn't capture the way she looked with any kind of justice or the way you felt seeing her there. But you would cherish it because you'd know that painting would be the nearest you would ever get to returning to this place, this second.
Silently, you wonder what it would be like to kiss her- to cup her face in your hands, to grasp he waist, to comb your fingers through her hair and press your lips- chastely? hungrily?- to hers. Maybe she would reciprocate with the innocence of the Elf maid you know she isn't, maybe she would push you away and banish you from her sight. Or maybe, maybe, she would devour you as you wish to devour her, consuming hands wandering everywhere they are not supposed to, pushing and pulling in the game you play and have always played
Maybe you would like to find out tonight.
"Tauriel," you greet and fetch up against the balcony beside her with a sunny smile, "do you not fancy the dancing tonight?"
The look she gives you is a hundred shades of playful and you recognise the look in a heartbeat, the coy smile, the flirty lilt to her body. And you change your stance to match hers with a wink and think that you are perhaps a little more drunk than you thought, to make your advances so bold.
"Perchance there was no one worth dancing with in there," she replies haughtily, looking down her nose. Her cheeks are flushed with cold and you think, you think that she is the most gorgeous creature you have ever seen.
You lean closer, close enough that you can see each of the starburst freckles that stain her face in exquisite detail and ask, "how about out here? Has anyone caught your fancy, milady?"
"Perhaps there is one. But I have heard that he dances like a Noldor who has been confronted by a Silmaril."
"I have heard that he dances like Lúthien Tinúviel herself."
She laughs. "Maybe I should find out then."
You offer her your hand without a word. From the open doors you can hear the high refrain of the warbling flute cry out, accompanied by the flying melody of the violin, and the song is a waltz you have long known all the steps to, the one you learnt with your feet placed atop your mother's as she twirled and spun with you giggling noisily over the music. It's the perfect song to dance to, you think, and Tauriel, with a secret smile that curls up the corners of her lips minutely seems to agree.
"Show me how to dance," she challenges- so you do.
For five breathless minutes you move as one, stepping in tandem as you twirl about the stone rectangle of space. There are moments in which you think one of you are about to make a mistake, about to break the beautiful rhythm you have slipped so naturally into- but each time you manage to correct yourselves at the very last second, drawn together by some raw magnetic pull that keeps you orbiting, meeting and mingling before parting like Arien and Tilion.
Yet she keeps her arms light around you, perfunctory, one hand placed unerringly on your waist and the other gripping your hand. It's only the merest of touch, detached and remote, and you for a moment you imagine that you have misread this whole situation. And you would not be surprised for Tauriel is worth so much more, is so much better than you could even aspire to be. A quick parting will be the obvious outcome, you decide.
But she stays for the next song with another smile, the stars reflected innumerable in her eyes, and that, you think with a new spring in your step, is a promise in itself.