Huor
"Am I not far too old for this?" I groan, unsuccessfully attempting to squirm away from my brother.
"If that were the truth, you would be able to do this yourself," Húrin chuckles, raking the comb through my hair. I gasp as its teeth catch yet again in one of the many tangles that my curls have inexplicably knotted themselves into. "If you took more care in the day, your hair wouldn't get into such a state," he continues.
"If I took more care, I wouldn't have half as much fun," I counter, grinning. He sniggers, finally setting down the dratted comb and starting to twist back strands of my hair into braids. His hair, of course, has not a single strand out of place. Húrin has turned the act of dressing formally into a fine art.
Prior to my tenure in Gondolin, I had always adhered to the simple truth that all formal robes- regardless of form, material or maker- are scratchy, uncomfortable garments whose true design is not – as their name suggests – to be appropriate dress for a formal event, but to keep their wearer awake throughout the formal proceedings.
However, as in all things, Gondolin and the Gondolindrim have defied my expectations. I rub the velvet of my cuff against my cheeks, delighting in the soft touch. The robes provided for my brother and I by the palace dressmakers are unmistakably the most comfortable garments I have ever had the pleasure to wear.
"Done," Húrin murmurs, resting his hands on my shoulders lightly. I gently pat my head, trying to visualise whatever Húrin has seen fit to do. From what I can gather, he has complied with my wish for simplicity at tonight's apparently special party.
I slip off the bed on which I have been perched for the last quarter-hour, and take in the surprising image presented to me in the large mirror on the opposite wall. I look perceptibly older than I did upon arriving in Gondolin only a quarter-year ago. Has only so little time passed? It seems so much longer... I have had a sudden spurt of growth – the first of many I should expect, Húrin has informed me – in limb and body; the intense training in elven weaponry has lent grace to my movements and firmed my muscles. The baby fat on my face has slimmed. The elegant braids, the graceful robes... I look closer to manhood than I ever have before.
Húrin stands beside me, evaluating the both of us. Dressed in his elven robes, hair pulled back in a more complicated style, Húrin too looks older than his years. For the first time, I notice a slight speckling of stubble across his jaw and a new sadness in his eyes.
"Brother, are you alright?" I ask, hesitating. He gives me a long, sad look then – to my surprise – envelopes me in a rare hug.
"I am fine, brother, though admittedly homesick. Truth be told, Huor, you greatly resemble Father tonight," Húrin murmurs. I take an evaluative look in the mirror myself, noticing to my surprise that I do in fact look like my father.
"As do you," I offer.
"Not to your extent," he replies. "I resemble Mother more, I believe."
I take in his fuller frame, the angle of his jaw, even the shape of his eyebrows.
"You do," I agree, "and that's wonderful!" I pause and stare silently into the looking glass; suddenly it seems that Mother and Father are looking back at us. Perhaps they plead for us to return; perhaps, perhaps... Even after only a quarter year, they probably think us dead or captured.
Húrin smiles gently. "As long as it doesn't make you too homesick."
"I'm not homesick," I hastily defend. "I am only... I tend not to think about home all that much anymore. Maybe because it's been such an adventure here." I look down uncomfortably and run a finger over the soft blue bedspread under me. I shouldn't be saying all of this; Húrin will think I don't care about them, as it seems he thinks of home often. I swallow.
"Does that make me," I venture, "a bad son?"
My brother frowns briefly, then claps a hand on my shoulder and laughs. "No, not at all, never! It just makes you more resilient than I am. That's a blessing, not something to shame yourself over!"
I smile in return. "Maybe I'll have to teach you it. You might need some resilience someday!" I tease.
"I already do," he answers, "though I fear I can only hope to be stubborn... Resiliency is quite a high goal to aim for." We both laugh briefly, but I have no chance to answer before two crisp knocks resound at the door.
"Come in!" calls Húrin, removing his hands entirely from the vicinity of my hair, to my gratitude. The door swings open slowly and ceremoniously.
"How prepared are our guests of honor?" inquires Egalmoth; his voice is somewhat cheeky, almost boyish with enthusiasm, like he's holding in a juicy secret. I try my best to ignore the clashing of his cerulean shirt with his orange trousers with the rubies studding his silver necklace.
"Because," he adds strangely and quickly, "you are always honored here, not only tonight especially or anything of that nature."
Egalmoth's a strange one, but among my favorites of the Lords. He, like Glorfindel and-when we see him-Ecthelion, appears to take a genuine interest in us as people, not specimens of the mortal race for examination. Even the kindest and friendliest of the Elves here at times convey such an attitude. I doubt they mean ill by it, but it makes some interactions, well, awkward-like when the street vendor asks one if he knows what bread is made from, or the manservant attempts a lesson about soap and its uses... (Húrin was more offended by that one than I.) But at any rate, I'm glad to see Egalmoth.
"Yes," Húrin is answering, grinning, "we're more than ready to join the festivities."
"Then come along!" cries Egalmoth, flailing his arms in an insubtle beckon out the door. We oblige him and are soon following the vibrant Lord of the Heavenly Arch down the hallway, whose glass windows now let in an orange sunset. We walk in silence for only a few seconds before my stomach grumbles.
"On what are we feasting tonight?" I inquire pleasantly. Húrin might scold me for posing such a question to any of the Lords but Egalmoth. He doesn't like it when I'm "terribly forward," though he can be just as bad in his own way. It isn't as if I'd complain about the food, though; I'm only curious.
"Ah, I cannot answer! To tell would ruin the surprise!" Egalmoth sends me a faux-serious glance, fighting to hide his grin. "Do you not enjoy surprises, Huor? Fear not, young one: I shall see to it personally that you are well-fed!"
"Am I supposed to interpret that as you having been tasked to stay by our sides for the entire evening?" I ask, lightly. "Who did you offend so to land such a chore?" Húrin looks scandalised, yet Egalmoth laughs, so I avoid any reprimand.
"You do yourself an injury if you assume time spent in your presence is a punishment! My meaning, little imp, was to reassure you of the quality of tonight's fare."
"Ah. I take it, then, to mean you do not know the details of the feast," I say, trading a grin with Húrin, who returns the expression grudgingly.
"Precisely!" Egalmoth gives a beaming smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. "However, I have no doubt that the kitchens shall not disappoint your expectations, young Huor."
Húrin claps both Egalmoth and myself on the shoulder – possibly the most casual gesture he has allowed himself in Gondolin – with an unexpectedly cheeky grin. "I do not doubt the quality of the food but the quantity. Huor's sudden gain in height is matched with a ferocious gain in appetite! Why, the kitchens might not be able to provide-" I cut short Húrin's mischief with an elbow to his abdomen, as Egalmoth roars with laughter.
"Perhaps I should take the excess food from your plate, brother," I counter, "As it seems you are unlikely to grow any taller! Your waist, on the other hand, may be a different story..." I trail off, sending a significant glace to his midriff.
"Such cheek!" cries Húrin, but he smiles still. The pattern of teasing banter is heart-wrenchingly familiar: in the often lonely years of our childhood, my brother and I have relied on each other to remain in high spirits. Already the melancholy feelings of the past quarter hour have retreated; moreover, Húrin appears more at ease than he has for several weeks.
"Such cheek," Húrin repeats, visibly restraining himself from ruffling my hair, as he did when I was a young child. "A youngster ought to respect his elders!"
"But of course," I say, pivoting to face Egalmoth and sinking into a bow. "How fare ye, oh great and merciful Lord?"
Egalmoth loops his arms around my brother's shoulders and mine, laughing heartily. "Bemused, young Huor, if I am truthful: I am attempting to understand how we Gondolindrim survived without daily exposure to your bright humour."
"Easily, I would wager," says Húrin, slyly.
"How dare you," I retort, reaching around Egalmoth to poke Húrin sharply. "Especially since my humour is effortlessly more sophisticated than yours!"
"I do not think that is what the Lord Egalmoth meant..." Húrin drily returns. I would think of a reply, but - we've reached the ballroom.
Every candle of the three massive crystal chandeliers severing the ceiling in a row is lit, sending rainbows bouncing around the crowded room. The largest mass of young elves I've seen since we arrived in Gondolin is gathered in large rings and small clusters under the lights and the high arches. Girls wear dresses sumptuous or simple; boys wear tunics and breeches or robes like my brother's and mine; what I can't help but notice is that all boast a vast array of colours, which effects to swirl the crowd into an abstract painting of violets and reds and blues and greens and golds. I've never thought of this before, but it's one of my favourite things about Gondolin: the colours. You see little colour in Dor-lómin, and even less in Brethil-not so here. I'm enamoured of that.
"Well then," Egalmoth intones from beside me where he still is, "run along!" He extends a blue-sleeved arm toward the partygoers, but Húrin and I make no move. Meeting my brother's gaze, I see the nervousness that has suddenly dropped like a weight into my stomach. We know perhaps two or three of the people here, and I see none of them right now.
"You are free to mingle with the guests until dinnertime!" Egalmoth continues, eyes hopping between my brother's face and mine. "Then after everyone eats, the music starts."
"All right," says Húrin slowly, "I'm sure we can find someone we have met before in this crowd." I can't tell if he's putting an authentic bold face on the situation, or is hinting at our problem to Egalmoth. It could possibly be a combination of the two.
The Lord frowns; I've never seen him do that before. "Why would you need to have met them prior to tonight?"
"Because it makes things uncomf-" I start, But Húrin is speaking over me.
"Oh, it isn't necessary," my brother explains, "but it is always pleasant to find a familiar face in a crowd."
Egalmoth nods, though I cannnot tell whether he understands or is merely attempting to show he's listening. He opens his mouth but stops short as a grin spreads across his features, then he waves enthusiastically. "Do come over, Luiniel!" he calls to a brown-haired girl about my own height, and she bounds lithely toward us, eyes sparkling.
"This, my young lords," says Egalmoth, embracing her slender form, "is my sister-daughter, Luiniel, your newest familiar face. Luiniel, meet Húrin and Huor of the House of Hador."
"It is a pleasure," says Húrin, extending a hand to her.
"The pleasure's mine!" she answers earnestly, flipping a chocolate-brown curl over her shoulder to take his hand. They shake, then she turns to me: "It's lovely to meet you!"
"You, as well!" I flash her a smile, but can do little more before two high, fine strikes of a bell resound, requesting silence from the group. A herald - to my joy, of course - announces that dinner is served in the adjoining hall. Movement in my peripheral vision reveals Egalmoth has taken a step backward.
"With that," says the vibrant Lord, gaze twinkling turquoise, "I take my leave, and leave Gondolin's youth to the festivities! Luiniel, would you mind showing our friends where all the best people sit?" He winks.
"I'd be honored," Luiniel cheerily answers, then all but flicks both hands at Húrin and me, beckoning with zeal. "Come, we ought to enter with my friends!"
"Certainly, if they be willing to accept our presence," replies Húrin, with a short bow. Luiniel raises an eyebrow slightly, though careful to rearrange her features in order he does not notice. I roll my eyes. Trust Húrin to welcome the warm hand of friendship with cool formality.
"Allow me to translate from 'Húrin' into 'Sindarin'," I say. "His meaning is thus: 'Yes, lets!'"
Luiniel laughs, and steers Húrin and I by our elbows towards a group of young elves. Húrin's irritation at my cheek is quickly hidden behind a mask of polite interest, though I know my brother well enough to see the slight anxiety he also conceals.
Luiniel's friends comprise of two more young females– one, tall and dark haired, gives Húrin and I an appraising look; the other, a stouter maid with light brown hair like Mother, smiles shyly – and three young males – one tall and swarthy, with a friendly smile; one broad and blond; the third perhaps the brother of the brown-haired maid – all similarly aged to my brother and myself.
At least, in visage, they appear similar. Who of the race of Men could deduce their true age?
"Dears!" Luiniel greets, towing us towards the group. "It appears introductions are in order! Our new friends: Húrin and Huor of the House of Hador."
The group murmurs a greeting as one, sharing words, I notice, but not tones. The blonde boy and black-haired girl do not appear as welcoming as their fellows, though do attempt at politeness. Why, I cannot guess. Perhaps the pair were forewarned of Húrin's compulsive politeness.
"As for my motley crew, let me introduce: Melwen," – the tall maid – "Tuilinn," – the brunette – "Thrandion," – the friendly male – "Neldir" – the blond – "and Galwë." Luiniel gestures to each person in turn; the individual places a hand to their chests or inclines their head in greeting.
"And now, the next necessity – let us eat!" Luiniel's enthusiasm smoothes over any awkwardness; she leads our passage to the dining hall. Húrin gives my hand a reassuring squeeze, a comforting gesture against the backdrop of anxiety that has coloured this event for Húrin and I, though not, it seems, for our elven counterparts.
'Why would you need to have met them prior to tonight?' Egalmoth had said. Another difference between our kinds, it appears. Anxiety over first meetings is such a normal response... Or so I thought. Though these past few months have brought me closer to my captors-turned-friends, moments such as these remind me of how alien the Elves truly are to Húrin and I.
"Are you enjoying yourself so far this eve, Lord Huor?" The question comes from the brunette – Tuilinn, I believe. On Luiniel's other side, Thrandion has engaged my brother in conversation on his duel with Rog.
"It has been most pleasant..." I pause momentarily. Húrin is the master of formality, not I. How should I address a possible friend? "Lady Tuilinn..." I add, hesitantly.
"Oh," she replies, embarrassed. "The formality is unneeded, I assure you. 'Tuilinn' is the only title I require."
"It has been most pleasant, Tuilinn," I amend. "Every person I meet is friendlier than the last; the hall is a feat of beauty and engineering; the food, by all accounts, will be – my word," I exclaim suddenly, "what a delicious smell!"
Melwen
Bored under the dancing rainbows of three chandeliers, I crack my wrists, then cross my arms and lean back against the wall. Perhaps an hour, perhaps longer into the dancing-half of the King's party for noble youth, I've already fruitlessly scoured the great ballroom's walls for a clock of any kind. There isn't one.
"Melwen!" Even over the raucous melody lifted by the harps and flutes and viols, I can hear Neldir's voice too clearly. Luiniel's friend (mine less, though he knows it not) has bounded over to my side, what must be a glass of punch in hand. "Are you quite as bored as I am?" He's succeeded in lowering his voice slightly.
"Far more bored," I assure him curtly, avoiding eye contact and staring out into the vivacious mass of dancers before me. He doesn't answer immediately, so I continue, "I've been watching those two for the past few minutes," and incline my head toward Luiniel and Húrin, who have passed in front of me again in a swirl of brown and golden hair, green gown and blue robes.
"Oh." I'm avoiding looking at Neldir's face, but his tone betrays the fish-like expression he wears all too often. "How did that happen?"
"How should I know? My eyes had almost glazed over a few seconds into this song when they suddenly traipsed into view. I have no idea what Luiniel thinks she's doing." One flautist takes a rambunctious solo, and the mortal spins my friend; once the strings join back in, though, they are soon out of sight.
"It is bad enough we have to be here for these mortals. Now Luiniel thinks she ought to tease one with a dance?" Now I can hear his grimace, and that's like a toad's.
"She's only being kind," I swiftly defend her. "You know she is like that, Neldir."
"I know, I know." His smile is easier to hear than see. "I didn't mean she is doing or indicating anything on purpose. I'm aware she would be far too kind to decline him."
"Or kind enough to ask him herself..." I let the idea linger on the punch-fumed air between us.
"She did?" It's a gape now, and I turn to see it, my shorter companion's pink maw contorted into a cavernous 'O,' eyebrows halfway up his forehead. Such a thought would scandalize him. I snort.
"No, of course not - though it would not have surprised me." I smirk briefly, then avert my gaze from Neldir.
This song is popular, familiar - perhaps even to Húrin, which could be why he picked it to ask Luiniel for a dance. I tap my index finger to its two sharp final viol notes, noticing that the couple have managed to find their way toward this side again. As the tune ends once and for all, the dancers burst into cheers and applause. Luiniel and Húrin release one another, and Luiniel's head pivots in my direction. She meets my eyes, then Neldir's and smiles, motioning Húrin to follow her toward us.
"Oh, here he comes," mutters Neldir. If I know him at all, he'll be far ruder to the engwa's face than I.
"Good dance?" I ask dispassionately once they have reached us. Studying Luiniel's eyes, I read delight, but not the sparkle of attraction. As for Húrin, I know blessedly little about mortal faces to make any kind of conjecture.
"A very good dance!" Luiniel answers me, that unflagging smile still curving her delicate cheeks.
"Good enough for another?" Húrin suggests mildy. I'm pleased at least to see he isn't touching her.
Luiniel smiles and emits a light laugh. "Oh, I think it is Melwen's turn!"
Joy. No inoffensive phrase springs to mind to reject Húrin; resigned, I acquiesce, accepting Hurin's proffered arm. We take our place among the throng on the dance floor. He takes my hand in his, places his other on my waist, and smiles politely. Over his shoulder, Neldir catches my eye and smirks from where he stands with Luiniel.
On the musicians' podium, Lord Ecthelion begins to play. The dance begins, the participants twirling gracefully to the beat of the well known tune – or, should I say, well known to some, for Húrin stumbles his way through the initial movements of the dance. Pursing my lips in frustration, I guide him almost forcefully for what seems like several minutes, as he stares determinedly at our feet.
"My apologies, Lady Melwen. This dance is unfamiliar to me." The boy looks flustered, his cheeks tinged pink.
"Do not worry, Lord Húrin. 'Tis a complicated dance even for elvish learners," I reply smoothly, steering him around the dance floor. His brow furrows; upon reflection, I realise my response was not all that polite. I catch a glimpse of Luiniel swirling through the crowd and sigh inwardly. She would disapprove of my manner. For our friendship, I will try harder to be civil.
"However, you have an admirable understanding of the movements for one dancing their first," I amend. It is not a lie, I grudgingly admit. He has not stepped on my foot for at least half a minute.
Húrin bows his head in thanks. "Though my brother and I have been trained in the basics of dance, it was not the focus of our education. In Brethil, there was time not enough: fighting the Enemy was our preoccupation."
I wonder if his comment is innocent, or a sly gibe at the reclusiveness of the Gondolindrim. If so, I can almost admire Húrin for his cunning remark, and his bravery for expressing such a view in the midst of several hundred of the aforementioned people. However, given the reputation the young mortal has gained since his arrival in Gondolin for strict political correctness, I hazard to guess at the former. It is almost a shame: for a moment, my interest was truly sincere.
"Did you enjoy your turn about the floor with Luiniel?" I ask, as the maiden in question dances by. Húrin follows my gaze, and a small smile flickers across his face.
"Yes, my lady, I did indeed, though I suspect my enjoyment of the dance was somewhat augmented by my prior knowledge of the movements." I correct him mildly – 'lady' is a wholly unnecessary title for one of my stature – as the dance moves into its final stages. Lord Ecthelion leads the musicians into an encore, the strum of the stringed instruments weaving around the trill of his flute.
The room breaks into applause as the song ends. Húrin bows and offers another dance; I decline with as much forbearance as I am capable of. He escorts me from the dance floor to the company of Thrandion and Tuilinn – his greeting, of course, histrionic – before bidding me a gracious farewell and departing in search of his brother.
"He seems pleasant enough," comments Thrandion.
"If overly formal," Tuilinn says pensively. "Huor is quite the opposite. Their individual manners suggest anything but close kinship. Huor's cheer is reminiscent of the Lord Glorfindel's, and his dancing is... enthusiastic. Exhaustion prompted me to turn down his offer of another turn around the floor." I chuckle at that and glance back out into the mass of dancers.
"Exhaustion only, then?" I tease, returning my gaze to study Tuilinn's face. I straighten my sleeves and smooth my hair down.
"Certainly so; you know I love few things more than dancing." Tuilinn takes a sip of the pink punch, and it leaves a residue of foam on her upper lip. "I have no problem sharing a song with one of the mortal guests. Just having someone to teach the steps to is interesting, I think."
"I would know nothing of that..." laughs Thrandion. "But really, my dinner conversation with Hurin was quite fascinating. He knows a great deal about weaponry, both from his own experience and lessons with the Kings' trainers."
"With the King's trainers?" My eyebrows shoot toward my hairline. I mean, the existence of this ball alone is proof the two boys are more than prisoners to Turgon, but to think they have access to the experts in the King's employ... "I'm shocked," I add.
"As was I," agrees Thrandion. "I suppose there is nothing wrong with it, though. If they're going to live in Gondolin, they might as well learn something of our practices."
"At least that would make them useful for something," I snort. Tuilinn frowns.
"Oh, I think they're 'useful' to us just by being here," she says. "We'd only heard rumors of the Secondborn, and of course we Gondolindrim would have never received the chance to meet them and learn about them firsthhand without their coming here." Tuilinn is a lovely person.
"Certainly." So is Thrandion. "We have books and crafts and lore and all sorts of discoveries here, but there are some things that simply must be experienced. If this city has one weakness at all, that might be it."
If I did not know Thrandion as well as I do, I would label his words treasonous; however, he is merely curious, as most members of the House of the Mole seem to be. (We of the Heavenly Arch are more easily contented.) Yet his words are like the Lady Aredhel's years before any of our births: dangerous. Thrandion, though, is far from as rash as she; I do not fear for him.
Tuilinn answers him: "We can at least ask Húrin and Huor all we can about the world outside while they remain here." I nod.
"We should take advantage of that while it lasts; they will probably be-" I fumble for words I 've never used to describe a living person. "-aged and withered-" The words feel wrong on my lips. "Before anyone else here tonight even has children." My friends remain silent for a substantial period before Thrandion speaks up at last.
"I would feel sorry for them if they had come to live and die anywhere less beautiful than Gondolin. I wonder if they feel they've lost their freedom."
"Ask them now!" Tuilinn inclines her head toward Luiniel and the two boys, fast approaching our trio.
Thrandion shakes his head and purses his lips. "I could not." He toys with one of his tightly wound curls, gazing thoughtfully over the heads of the dozen or so people separating us from the approaching company. "It would not be tactful," he decides. "Moreover, it is obvious they have lost certain freedoms. They are not permitted to leave the valley, as we very well know. To ask would only renew any grief felt over the King's decision."
"I have never known you less curious," Galwë observes quietly, startling all but Tuilinn. Too used to her brother's casual stealth, she merely rolls her eyes at my own and Thrandion's comparative skittishness.
"I am curious enough, little mouse; I just know to temper my curiosity with tact," Thrandion replies, suddenly brightening. "Our new friends have many interesting aspects; their skills in the practice yard, for example. Húrin bested Lord Rog, a remarkable feat, especially considering his age."
"I am personally interested in the cultural differences between our kinds," Tuilinn injects. "Constant exposure to the Shadow must cast a sombre air over even the happiest of times." She scans the dancers, absentmindedly beckoning Neldir as he twirls his partner to the final notes of a harpist duet. "I wonder if Húrin or Huor would consent to teach me the dances of Brethil?"
I laugh, truly amused for the first time this evening, and wrap an arm around her waist. "Who could deny you such a joy, Nessa?" I tease.
"You, perhaps?" she retaliates, her eyes shining with mirth. "Not six hours ago you refused to lend me your dancing shoes! Your secondary shoes, might I add, that matched my dress perfectly."
"What can I say? I'm of the Heavenly Arch: materialism is in my nature." Our budding conversation is cut short by the arrival of Luiniel, Húrin and Huor, the latter balancing a platter of drinks with an uneasy expression. His nervousness, however, is nothing in comparison to Húrin's, who hovers at his brother's elbow in poorly disguised anxiety.
Silently mourning the end of my banter with dear Tuilinn, I help her and Huor distribute the glasses, which appear to contain a warm berry punch. The younger mortal glances around him, bemused, for somewhere to set down his platter; after a moment's deliberation, he hides it behind a tapestry of the King's late father.
I catch Neldir's eye with a grimace, indicating Huor's impropriety. The youth notices, and flushes deeply, judging correctly to have committed some offence. Fighting down the urge to ask a series of tactless questions, I say in a low murmur, "It would be... prudent... for you to move the platter, master Huor."
"My apologies, Melwen," he whispers. "Who... The elf depicted... What is his name?"
"Fingolfin," I answer. "The late High King." Huor's eyes widen almost comically. He ducks away from our clustered group to retrieve the platter. To my intense relief, only I appear to have noticed his indiscretion. I doubt even Lord Egalmoth's fondness of the boy could protect him from the wrath of the King if he knew of this slight to his father.
Huor hurries in the direction of the buffet table, slipping quietly through the crowds. Despite his caution, heads still turn, though thankfully seeming more bemused by the flushed mortal than suspecting any wrong doing. I wonder how their opinions would change if they knew of Huor's unawareness of the face of our beloved late High King. King Turgon's opinion, at least, is certain: Huor ought to be thankful he is not here to notice.
The King gave a brief oration over our meal, but has since disappeared, leaving only the Lords Egalmoth and Ecthelion to supervise the dancing. I do not blame him: the night is long, and I myself grow both tired and restless. I sip my punch and try to focus on the conversation.
"So, friend Húrin," Galwë is saying, "I hear tell you won a spar with the Lord Rog?" There will probably be no second question from him, but he must be truly fascinated by the mortals to ask at all. Húrin blushes and grins
"Truly?" queries Luiniel, lowering her glass and smiling."Why have I not heard this yet?"
"Because Húrin is quite modest about it," answers Thrandion warmly.
"Or so he pretends to be...!" Huor has resurfaced between Luiniel and Húrin, surprising me with his resilience. If I were to commit such an ignorant act as he has, I would be shame-faced and silent for the remainder of the night. Teasing my brother before the group would be out of the question. I think, though, that his youth is as responsible for his boldness as his people of origin. At least his tone is somewhat muted-but my friends laugh.
"You shall have to tell the story again, Húrin," urges Thrandion with a grin. Húrin opens his lips, but is interrupted by the sudden ringing of a bell from the stage. A page stands by Lord Ecthelion, and the lord himself raises a hand to quiet us.
"Alas, it is past midnight, and the time has come to bring this celebration to a close. Thank you all very much for attending! Please be dismissed out the doors to the back. I hope you enjoyed your evening, and I wish you a good night." The music has stopped, and the mass of dancers begins to disintegrate.
"It seems I shall have to hear the tale another time," says Luiniel.
"Hopefully soon!" remarks Húrin, meeting her eyes. I struggle not to roll mine.
"Good night, everyone," I state, turning toward the doors as the rest of my companions are still saying their farewells. I hurry down the bustling hallway ahead and finally burst out into the cool night. Ithil hangs bright over head, his rays playing amid the city's stones. I am going home.