The tinkling of lights off silver caught his eye. The thrum of gold in the stonework. The deep fluted notes of rubies and the higher, clearer tones of adamant and opal ornamenting the cups. The swooping melodies of sapphire, the trills of emerald. Woven mesh of precious metals adorned the hair of the ladies. The men wore flashing silver in their beards.
He could feel the beat of the song through the smooth boards of the long table. Could follow the rhythm of it. He had'n been deaf so long that he had forgotten music, no, not he.
The delicate fingers of a lassie touched his hand, and she gestured to his trumpet.
Óin shook his head and sent her off with a smile, keeping time with his foot.
No, he'd not forgotten music, but the dancing was for younger bones than his.
Laughter reached him, lapping through the tones of his own melody.
Óin looked about. Old friends, new friends, all bathed in the warm glow of midwinter fires and gather to feast and to dance with friends and kin. It was well.
Keeping time with his foot, he turned back to watch the dance begin.