It represented the seasons to the Elves, a mad rush of color, speed, life and death and peril. The movements were exacting and reckless, all spinning and twirling and leaping until nobody knew which way was up and all went crashing down around the stretching, greedy bonfire. It was a wild thing, full of emotion and carelessness; an amazing display of the inherent grace of the Eldar.
Only those ecstatic or despairing dared try. The dance was only really meant for them, anyway, its flailing motions best suiting extremes of either sort. Those who danced for elation beheld laughter, energy and life. They made the steps happy and pleasing to watch.
Erestor, however, danced his despair, his rage, his pain and his deep, feral madness. He danced everything in him that was pent up, bound and gripped in death-white knuckles. He was not pleasing to watch. Some bystanders dutifully locked on the form of one of the laughing Elves, refusing to acknowledge him. The rest looked on in horror, gaping and wishing that they could tear their eyes away from the black Elf.
Erestor always danced.
The celebration where they performed happened on the first of summer: the height of the seasonal year, only moments before the eager growth of spring gave way to the tired decline of autumn. It was thought to have originated with the Silvan Elves east of the Anduin, commemorating the fast pace of the Mortal world and the Elves' place in it.
It began with the fires of sunset, giving way to the excited celebratory flames and quieting to the dull embers of sunrise. That eve, the Eldar remembered their birth, their blood, their death and their triumph all in one explosive instant that lasted almost twelve hours. For one night a year, the Elves were as fey as the tales of Men depicted.
The festival started with drinking. Alcohol ran aplenty and served to ease normally taciturn individuals into the relaxed demeanor required to partake in the activities. Most sipped carefully as they socialized, making idle chit-chat or reacquainting with old friends, but Erestor stood alone.
He was never exactly sociable, but on this night, the others took greater lengths to avoid him. Erestor always understood, so he retreated to the shadows and drowned in liquor. Nobody ever knew how much he drank then, but he was ashamed of it anyway.
By the time the fires roared, Erestor's eyesight had blurred and his reins on himself had slipped. The effect was frightening: The normally pale, emotionless advisor trembled, tears glistening and fear glinting in his wide black eyes. By rote, he started over to the red glow at the other end of the courtyard, and then he stopped.
The other Elves had discreetly moved to block the path.
Erestor was confused for a moment, and then something burst to light behind him. It was a new fire, one that had never existed in previous years. It was not supposed to be there; it was not a part of the ceremony. Somewhere, beneath the drunken haze, Erestor understood, and a despair of a different sort touched his heart.
They did not want him to dance.
Erestor always knew that they hated watching him. He felt the nausea in the gazes turned on him and he felt the discomfit in the eyes fixed adamantly beyond him. The other dancers represented sunlight and stars and smell of rain in the morning, everything that made the Elves giddy about life and everything they loved. Erestor was everything wrong, the decay, the disillusionment, the despair and the rage. He was the Kinslayings and the shame. He was everything horrible that made the light seem so much brighter.
Erestor did not know why he was that way. He did not know when, or how, but at some point he had fallen into a wretched pit of depression, and then rage and terror. There was no real reason. Perhaps he had lived for too long; perhaps he had not lived enough. Maybe he had seen too much, or done too little. Maybe it was simply in his nature to endure what his fellows denied.
It did not matter why, anyway, only that he did.
After a long moment Erestor could not endure it anymore. This was his one night of release, his one chance to release what he guarded so adamantly... but now things banged around inside him like they never had before, and he was openly terrified and panicking like a rabid animal.
Amid the chaos in his mind rang one thought, remarkably calm and clear: 'Everybody has a breaking point'.
So he ran, desperately and flailing to the secluded fire, and when he reached it he leapt straight over, and spun around and around, and jumped and staggered and fell, and then spun again. He was not following the dance this time, only the way he felt, and it was like sobbing, begging someone, anyone to anchor him and knowing that nobody ever would.
Another clear thought: 'I think I might fall into the fire like this.'
All of the sudden, somebody did come, a golden apparition of light and beauty, goodness and depthless sympathy. Through the fog of intoxication, smoke and tears, Erestor recognized the smile lines and the bright, clear eyes that were old and young at the same time.
It was Glorfindel.
Erestor staggered again, and Glorfindel steadied him. He spun, and Glorfindel matched him. He jumped up and around, and Glorfindel mirrored him. Erestor continued to dance out his madness with all the intensity he had previously, but now Glorfindel danced with him. He stayed facing Erestor and copied him.
Something about it made Erestor want to cry in earnest and his moves began to slow. He did not jump anymore, and soon he did not feel like spinning either. For a long time after that, Erestor only staggered around the fire.
Glorfindel walked backwards before him, extending his arms silently, exuding stoicism and compassion. His open embrace was a silent offer, and it was not long before Erestor collapsed into it, burying his face in the warrior's shirt and breathing and weeping. Glorfindel slowly knelt and brought Erestor with him, wrapping his arms about the slender elf and cradling his head against his shoulder.
Erestor cried and cried, and he sensed that maybe Glorfindel wanted to cry a little, too. His whole body convulsed with it, but it felt good to cry in Glorfindel's arms, wrapped in his scent and his warmth. He could not stop. He did not really even want to stop prematurely. Part of him was afraid that when he was finished, Glorfindel would leave.
Inevitably, he did finish, but he did not want to move, and Glorfindel did not want to let go of him. Erestor kept his face buried in Glorfindel's scarlet tunic.
Glorfindel squeezed his arms around Erestor, closing his eyes and kissing his head, and nuzzling Erestor's hair with his nose.
Neither of them noticed the other Elves, watching them silently from far away. They had followed Glorfindel after he suddenly abandoned the other dancers. Now they stood in a daze, remembering Erestor's dance that was like sobbing, and how Glorfindel calmly matched it.
Glorfindel and Erestor did not see any of that. Glorfindel only continued holding Erestor. Erestor's breathing and thoughts slowed from their frantic pace, and his eyes felt warm and heavy.
With one more clear thought, Erestor fell asleep against Glorfindel: 'Maybe Glorfindel loves me.'
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To Cry In Earnest by Tineryn
Story notes: The celebration depicted here is my invention, as is the dance that coincides with it.
