Tenemire was angry with himself. During the next two days his thoughts regarding the party vacillated between a childlike glee which he then tempered to a despairing apprehension. He truly had not had much fun in quite some time, perhaps not much in his life altogether. Before Silvermoon fell, the grand balls and galas in the city never reached him through the forest on his tranquil island. Years had passed since then and he began to wonder what it must have been like, perhaps thankful he had never gone, since he could not miss what he did not experience. As much as he willed himself to be insularly content, he knew he needed more social interaction. But as the excitement built he chastised this infantile side of himself, what meaninglessness was he giving into?
Much of this excitement came from an opportunity to dress in his finest and have a reason to do so. He harboured a what he thought to be shamefully vain idea that as a young and not entirely unattractive elf he was obliged by nature to enjoy, even flaunt, what it had gifted him. With this attitude he spent much of the day before the party readying himself.
He always considered himself to be fairly put-together, however the last formal occasion he attended was when he was in his youth and for a provincial event outside the city. He remembered what the young elven men looked like. He had just begun to mature then and was supremely self-conscious. He was shorter than they, a touch rounder, and awkward. He looked at them with their wives and mistresses and felt the pain of inferiority in his stomach. He remembered when he returned home that night his round face red with tears in the mirror. Perhaps this was why he had avoided most gatherings since then. Now he was older but still young by elven standards, a young adult just beginning his real life. He had grown taller since then, and leaner from eating mostly herbs, seeds, and flowers. His face had recovered its fairness, lengthened and sharpened, outlined by carefully trimmed hair. He felt better about himself now and he was finally going to join the ranks of young elven beauty.
He consulted old portraits of what now was considered the apex of elven society, the days leading up to the invasion. He boiled water in a pitcher with oil to wash himself. Beginning with his chest and abdomen, smooth fair skin with a youthful touch of black hair, down his limbs to his feet, small though narrow and long, and rather white with pink toes from almost always being covered in his boots. He applied a tough of aromatic oil to his long and wavy hair. He tended to his beard which was long overdo for a trim. He left a thin moustache above the curved lips of which he was rather proud, a small patch of hair atop and at the bottom of the prominent chin. He then powdered his face to enhance its fairness, and applied oil to his lips. He pulled long socks up around his toned calves from walking the hills of the forest and put on a flowing ruffled undershirt.
He opened the old wardrobe and went to the back where was stored an old but richly adorned robe. He looked at it fondly and pressed its rich fabric to his nose and inhaled. It was his grandfather's and probably worn by even older ancestors. It smelt of dust, smoke, alcohol, and perfume. He pulled it over himself and with some prior enchanting it fit him better than any other garment he owned. It was thin around his waste and enhanced the subtle V-shape of his body. It was violet with threads of gold in an intricate, stylised floral pattern. The colour was dark enough to not be overbearing, and ornament sparing enough to not be garish. Finally he put on his high boots. They were not as delicate in appearance as the rest of his dress and he liked this, a hint of rustication reminded him that he was not above spending his days combing through the forest floor among the fauna which he considered the closest relatives he had. This, and they enhanced his height somewhat. He had always been self-conscious about being slightly shorter than the average elven male.
As his rituals through the day to ready himself continued he monitored the sun's movement across the sky into twilight. A cool breeze began to blow and a faint mist had settled in the forest. The sounds that surrounded his house were so familiar to him that he took notice of the slightest difference. Some time before Nathera appeared in his doorway he could hear her treading through the long grass, her gown trailing behind her. He turned to see her silhouette in the arched portal against the deep blue that preceded night. She wore a simple smoke blue long dress. Her torso was mostly uncovered. Her red hair was worn simply in braids with some curls let down and adorned with flowers. She wore rustic boots that laced up around her legs. To himself, he thought he'd have done things differently, but one could not deny the individuality of her style. Her makeup was simple; she had a naturally lovely complexion that needed little aide. The scent of peacebloom was carried in by the breeze.
"Hello!" She said. Having spent the last 36 hours to himself, such a merry greeting startled him for just a moment.
"Hello, dear. Don't you look lovely."
"And my goodness! Look at you!" She went forward and circled him feeling the robe.
"I thought I'd use this evening to fix myself up."
"Well you look amazing. But we should go, I'm sure most are already there." He shut and locked the doors to his house and they went. They walked with her arm in his. He felt thankful for the pleasure of escorting her, lovely as she was.
"It was really nice of you to make such a detour for me."
"Well I figured I'd have a better chance of getting you to go if I made sure to escort you there myself."
"Well I admit I am a bit excited. It might be a fun experiment in observation."
"Saltheril invites everybody." She said with a grin.
As the sun cast its last rays, the twilight birdsong and soft breeze lent them a sensation of peace. Since the fall of Quel'Thalas, walking the forest or ruins at night was considered dangerous. However the two of them together knew enough magic to protect themselves and the undead rarely left the scar and only bothered the weak. The mist thickened somewhat as their walk progressed.
After some time passed the air stagnated and the still night set in. Fire from lamps and torches could be seen through the leaves and fog of the forest and music and laughter could be heard from afar. He suddenly became rather nervous. As they approached he recognised some of the faces, though most he did not. It was indeed a populous gathering which eased him somewhat. Although everybody took note of who was there, it was possible to mostly enjoy anonymity if one wanted, especially one as mostly unknown to others as he.
What he first noticed was the diversity of dress worn by the guests. He did not expect uniformity, however he anticipated a formality which was lacking. Most of the elven men had their hair back or even cut short and many of the women wore leisure dresses. Elven women's eyes were darkened with ash, their lips stung red with floral pigment from the forest. Strange pastels and dazzling jewels adorned the men, a kind of perverse blooming forth of each elf's individuality. They wore themselves on their cloaks and gowns. There was gay dance and laugh, there were displays of primeval physicality. The setting was ideal, a large terrace covered in opulent rugs, settees, and pillows. An ancient tree of Eversong towered over the terrace like a beneficent protector, so high and its branches so distant that it was easy to forget unless one looked directly up. There were candelabra and lamps of fire and luminescent crystal providing diffuse light in varrying shades. There's was the candleflame in the darkness. There was a central domed building, simple and elegant in design but rich in ornament as most elven construction. There were instruments of music enchanted to make music without players. Tables were covered in refreshment and spirits. Elves could be seen disappearing in and out of the surrounding mist as guests came and went as they pleased. As they approached the perimeter of the guests some eyed the new arrivals but quickly returned to their drinks and conversations. Tenemire instinctively stuck as close by Nathera as he could, desperately trying to find another familiar face. She had already engaged herself in conversation and he was left standing awkwardly by.
He did see somebody he recognised, Magistrix Eredania. She was perhaps the best dressed female elf in attendance and the highest ranking guest that he could see. High elven society was insular enough that most elves were only a few degrees of separation from any other. He had no particular reason to engage her however. Finally he did see somebody else he recognised and knew. Ambershine was a sempstress whom he contracted before for alterations of his clothing. Tailoring and dressmaking was a valued and well-respected craft of the elves. Garments took much time and resource to produce and were often enchanted thereafter rendering each piece unique and valuable. Therefore most garments were inherited and passed down, requiring constant refitting.
Ambershine was goodhearted though at times could let her mouth get her into trouble. She had a reputation for being a bit of a flirt. When they had first made acquaintance at the time of his requests, she was not subtle with her interest in him. To most elven men she was ideal so when Tenemire made no acknowledgment of her advances, indeed oblivious to them, she decided to befriend him, enjoying how unlike her he was. She was wearing a white gown with red flared sleeves and a deep V cutting down the chest to a large bow around her slender waist.
"Darling! What are you doing here?" They kissed on the cheeks.
"Nathera forced me to come."
"What a nasty creature! But I suppose I must thank her, it's about time somebody new came. But have you met Saltheril yet?"
"I'm afraid not, dear."
"Well you must!" She took his hand in one of hers, a drink in the other, and swayed over to the host. He was not difficult to identify, dressed in a rich violet shirt with gold trim, and an extremely thin elven lady on his arm. "Might I introduce Lord Saltheril and Lady Elisara; this is Tenemire Eventide, the ever so talented botanist." They made due courtesy.
"Dear, isn't that that hermit who lives deeper in the forest?" Lady Elisara spoke out of her nose. Although, it was partially justified. Tenemire was not the most courteous in the past, refusing to acknowledge invitations or even greet another elf he saw in passing.
"That is me, I'm afraid." He took and kissed her hand.
"Well there's plenty of drink to go around, I'd welcome the undead if they'd behave themselves, so no matter, Eventide." Saltheril was an attractive man, however Tenemire did not burden himself with shame or attraction when the man's love interest was standing right next to him, though he did question his taste.
"We were just discussing the 'wretched,' those addicts who wander the ruins. I suggested we round them up and throw them into the scar, maybe the undead will go away if they're satiated." For some, a proud, stupid bunch, that by no skill or virtue of their own, that they escaped such a fate as a termianl withdrawal from magic that befell their brethren, gave them a false sense of superiority and security. It was difficult, after all, to accept the ambivalence of nature at times. Temperance had never been a virtue valued by the high elves, why would it have? The Sunwell was a limitless font of power, and the high elves used it to craft the greatest civilisation since the ancient empire. There were those who consumed magic insatiably however, usually lazy mages or those who wished to bypass proper training. These had been the unlucky minority cursed with madness. Others knew how to use magic efficiently like mages, or only as a tool when necessary, such as the botanists, alchemists, craftsmen, and rangers, or took to other substances to ease their urges.
The conversation paused. They found themselves standing in a tight group on the perimeter of the party and for a moment the drone of conversations hushed and they all stared out into the dark, misty abyss. From it no light came, though one could convince oneself they were hearing the howls of the unmentionable denizens from the accursed place not so far from the revelry. They soon looked at each other and all smiled nervously before laughing; as if to physically shake off the dark realisation which had briefly overtaken all of them, if but for a moment.
"Go have another drink, Elisara." Saltheril said dryly. The gaunt woman silently crept away.
"Oh, do you like it?" Ambershine took the flowing fabric from Saltheril's shirt and held it in her slender fingers. The dark, soft velvet contrasted attractively with the man underneath. He was muscular for a man who spent his time pursuing leisure, and red chest hair was proudly displayed from the deep neckline.
"I must admit I was admiring it." Tenemire said.
"My work."
"Of course it is." The three laughed. Ambershine and Saltheril held each other's glance a moment too long Tenemire thought.
"Well, I give you leave to pursue your pleasure, here there are no sunsets or sunrises, we watch time indifferently, and the sensations of our bodies are our metric." He tried to sound philosophical, but he was an athletic man, simple in thought and taste. Tenemire begrudged the effect those words had on him however. Such a notion so contrary to everything he believed could be sinister in its simplicity, and persuasive. He and Ambershine walked arm in arm.
"Have you even had a drink yet?
"No, I had not even thought about it."
"Well that won't do." She brought him to an arrangement of crystals bottles. Many such arrangements were easily accessible from wherever one stood. "What's your pleasure?" In truth, Tenemire occasionally enjoyed a small glass of spirits he had inherited. This was only on special occasions though, or on nights that captured him. He picked up a bottle of tawny port and slowly poured the golden liquid into a small crystal glass. It was sweet and bitter, but was smoother than anything else he had ever imbibed. She must have seen the look in his eyes. "Ah yes!" They laughed.
The music was slow, deep, and rhythmic, the lighting was dim, the guests moved leisurely, altogether the party had a languid aura. As he looked about, he noticed that they were standing near a number of guests seated or lain upon lavish rugs and pillows, stained deeply and tassled. Among them was Tyniarrel. Suddenly a sharp odour accosted his senses and he had an initial reaction of stomach unrest.
Ambershine laughed heartily, "Have you never smelt bloodthistle before?"
"No, I have, just not… combusted, I suppose." He tried to filter the air around his nose with a cloth. Bloodthistle was a rudimentary herb however smoking its essence was something done long ago and a professional botanist would not consider such an activity.
Suddenly, his eyes caught another elf. He was one of those partaking in the smoke, he reclined against pillows with one long leg stretched out before him, another bent at the knee beside. Like, Tenemire, he was wearing a robe, however had on soft, luxurious slippers over his large feet, instead of boots. He was tall, broad with muscle, and had the slight suggestion of a belly from a lifestyle of leisure. He however carried himself easily and elegantly. He exuded an aura of confidence and ease, perhaps it was the bloodthistle. He was young, and revelled in his youth. He laughed highly and loudly. He had a brush of red facial hair and long, straight red hair that was attractive in its unkemptness. His dark blue eyes were visible even through flamelight at a distance. The robe exposed a friendly bit of furry chest. Beside him as well was a large libation. Tenemire felt a single heartbeat and a flutter in his stomach. His face flushed with the warmth of the wine. Their eyes met for the briefest moment and Tenemire averted his eyes to Ambershine before he could notice the other elf's hesitant smile.
"Oh of course." Ambershine leant into Tenemire.
"What?"
"I see you!" She laughed.
"What?" Tenemire said tensely.
"I see you've found an object to admire." He did not realise that he must have been staring intently at the elf. Upon this realisation he caught himself and tried to regain composure.
"No, it's perfectly alright, love. That's why we come here." Tenemire smiled at her and went off to find Nathera. He moved through the crowd with greater ease than before. He spotted Nathera conversing with Eredania. She stepped away and approached him. The friends greeted each other.
"I'm happy you're here, Ten, and not alone in the forest tonight. The magistrix made me uneasy."
"That's odd, what'd she say?"
"She herself was not at ease. It seemed like she needed to share with somebody."
"Go on." Nathera leant in and lowered her voice.
"She actually didn't share many details; she said that the magisters were warned that 'great change was upon the elven race.'"
"Well, that seems like a good thing no?"
"You'd think, but her tone was almost frightened, not anticipatory. I'm afraid things will change tomorrow, and there's not much any of us can do to stop it." At those words, and his heightened emotion from the wine, a deep chill came over him. He looked around at the laughing faces in the candlelight, the deep bass of the music, the swirling of fabric in a dance, the refraction of spirits in crystal. It was fear kept them here. Their people were broken and alone, the chaos of nature could pick them off one by one but together they could maintain an isolate of civilisation. They walked to a table and poured themselves drinks and drank to each other. Many nights passed in Tenemire's life when he looked up at the moon, static in the moment but swiftly moving upon a blink, and wished that the stillness of night, the comforting shadow, could go on forever. No such night before elicited this desire more deeply than this night.
Time passed and the night blurred around him. Decanters of endless spirits were tipped over his and all their glasses. He spoke familiarly with smiling faces of strange elves. He laughed with them, drank with them, danced with them. He took in the vapours from the long pipe and blew them out his mouth, watching them disappear in the dark. He was indistinguishable from the rest, partakers of revelry. All the while the stars in the sky spun above them.
He hadn't thought of her in some time, but he eventually spotted Nathera among the crowd. Behind her was Tyniarrel, his arms cast down the front of her torso. Her eyes were closed and they swayed together. Nathera, the beautiful creature whom he admired so, in the arms of one whom he disdained and disliked greatly. His reaction was augmented by the drink but he felt oddly betrayed and alone in that moment. He took a mouthful of the liquid and swallowed its fire, closing his eyes, and letting the deep bass strings take hold of him. When he opened his eyes again, a glint in the crowd caught his attention. Another's eyes had been on him as intently as his were on this elf earlier in the night. He was moving more naturally and gracefully than Tenemire but was able to hold his gaze, transfixing him like a snake's prey. He moved forward imperceptibly. For Tenemire, time sped and slowed, the others became fleeting figures in the periphery, he had stopped moving and remained still. As he came closer, the other elf smiled at Tenemire. It wasn't a predator's smile, it was sincere, almost sad. His eyes were affectionate and docile. At last he had arrived unmistakably in front of Tenemire. He was taller than Tenemire and looked down on him. His smile brought out another on Tenemire's face. He spoke, "Hi." The same voice as before. Softer and higher than what one would expect from a tall and broad elf.
"Hello." Tenemire broke his gaze and cast his eyes down, half-smiling.
"Would you like to dance?"
Tenemire looked past the other elf's head into the sky and said haltingly, "I would." The other elf made no hesitation after this consent, moving rapidly, almost before Tenemire could comprehend what had begun to take place. The other elf grasped his hand and pulled him in, another hand found his slight waist and directed its movement. The music was slow with a beating pulse kept by tambourines and drums, the deep strings below and the woodwinds above gave an ancient melody to dance and sway to, in and out, to spin to, once around the other, suddenly one's back to the other's abdomen. In moments of closeness Tenemire could smell the sweet smoke on the other, and a cologne natural and sweet like the trees. He exuded heat and his hands warmed Tenemire's each time they touched. Tenemire could feel only his heart inside him, the other elf's warm touch, and the beat of the music rising from his feet into his core. No thoughts entered his mind, the time that passed could have been seconds or hours, he lived for those moments only in the present experience of his senses.
Tenemire's back was to the other elf's, his large arm reached under Tenemire's and held his hand over his chest and pulled him close as they moved together. Tenemire leant his head back into the other's chest and closed his eyes. The gods had created life for this, singular moments of joy. Is this how the animals lived? Moment to moment, to sit peacefully in the forest, to take part in its endless bounty, to find love and create life, and to go willingly back into the world when the time is come. The song ended and their bodies separated but their hands remained together. Their eyes met again but only briefly. He lowered his head and Tenemire closed his eyes and their lips met. Tenemire lost his breath and the moment had passed before he could feel its full impact.
"What is your name?"
"Tenemire."
"I'm Sheynathren." He paused. "I would like… do you think we will see each other again?" The uncertainty of the future could not be forgotten even in this place, but Tenemire wanted nothing but to see him, to not stop seeing him from that moment.
"I would like that." He smiled but it was hesitant. Sheynathren bent down again and kissed Tenemire's cheek tenderly. He released his hand and sighed before at last leaving him in the dim torchlight, beneath the mighty tree of Eversong.