TITLE:  The Song of the Dance 
AUTHOR:  Ezra’s Persian Kitty (ezraspersiankitty@yahoo.com)
PAIRING:  Haldir/Celeborn, Rumil/Orophin
RATING:  NC-17
SUMMARY:  Galadriel wishes to bring an Old Tradition to light, not 
knowing that the task she sets Haldir will challenge his heart and soul.
DISCLAIMER:  Don’t own, don’t profit.  Don’t sue.
WARNING:  Some incestuous themes highlight the opening of the story, 
and will re-emerge (in extremes) in later chapters.  If this squicks you, 
then by all means, don’t read it.
 
NOTES:  This is my own personal rebellion against Haldir consistently 
appearing in early LotR fanfic in a supporting role as a villain, a slut, or 
both.  – I have nothing against these stories or their authors, (I’m writing 
one myself…) but I wanted to portray not only a ‘good’ Haldir, but to also 
shed a different light on his inherent fanon attributes: an elf whose pride 
does not make him evil and whose sensuality does not corrupt him.
MORE NOTES:  (1) The term Byeltinyeh is a phonetic spelling of the 
Celtic pronunciation of the pagan holiday better known as Beltane, which 
is celebrated at Midsummer.  (2) And I guess this is slightly AU, but 
then… isn’t all fanfic?
YET MORE NOTES: (I rarely indulge, but here’s my rant:) 
ARGGHHHH!  Do you KNOW how long I worked on this?  Three 
months.  For over three MONTHS this monster of a story has nagged at 
my mind, giving me no rest!  This fanfic became the bane of my existence, 
some amorphous monster, with character changes and plot mutations until 
it resembled to me little more than a mass of incomprehensible letters that 
stagnated in the writer’s ultimate fear of a story’s ultimate death.  And 
here, after countless rereads, rewrites, friends’ edits, re-rewrites, additional 
editing, and several times considering to scrap the whole thing altogether, 
I’ve finally FINISHED it!!!  Do you know how that makes me feel?  It’s 
as though this endeavor that began as a light hobby became a hideous 
burden, finally lifted.  I am free, do you hear me, free!!!  
And now, I can go celebrate with a drink down at the pub.
 
 
= = = = = 
 
Chapter 1:  The Summons
 
Among the high Lorien mellyrn, hardly a chill was in the air, despite the 
deep winter that settled so firmly on the whole of Middle Earth.  Up amid 
the wide branches of these ancient trees, in the Northern quadrant of the 
Elven city Caras Galadon, one cabin-like flet sat low in the limbs, away 
from the rest.  Its walls were high and its ceiling firm.  One window 
looked out to the north, and beneath this window sat a simple bed.  And on 
the simple bed sat a far from simple elf.
 
Haldir was the March Captain of the northern border of Lorien, but 
Midwinter was a time of celebration, and he and his brothers had been 
invited back to the city to join the festivities.  The bonfire had been 
exceptionally large this year, and Haldir had taken it upon himself to tend 
it rather than enjoy the revelry.  His brothers and Lord Celeborn had half-
heartedly tried to persuade him into the dances and the games, but he 
would not be swayed, and they knew that was simply his way and little 
could be done to change it.
 
But the opportunity had not been wasted.  Haldir had found a low perch 
among the younger mellyrn to watch both the fire and the party’s 
attendants.  He took great pride in his family and it was good to see 
Orophin chasing a pretty young wench from Mirkwood.  Orophin, the 
golden-haired beauty, shared little of Haldir’s sobriety.  And Haldir was 
glad of that.
 
Rumil also had been there.  Newly out of his minority, the youngest of 
Feagul’s sons was seeing the world with new eyes.  No longer a child, the 
festivities had been a revelation for him, and Haldir—along with 
Orophin—kept a close watch, to be sure.
 
The Lady Galadriel took much pleasure in the holidays, so in Lorien they 
were always a joy, and Haldir had smiled to see the Lady so happy and 
gay in the winter night, dancing and reveling with the others.
 
It was also on these rare occasions that Celeborn released his usual air of 
distant concern to participate in the ceremonies and other activities.  He 
had worn less formal attire, and his hair had been loose…  Haldir had long 
ago stopped trying to deceive himself.  It was the Lord Celeborn he had 
watched most often and closest.  It was the Lord Celeborn who held his 
heart.
 
But because he had so long attempted to hide his feelings even from 
himself, he could not pinpoint the moment or the day or the year that the 
revelation came fully upon him.  When he was young, he had simply 
idolized the elven lord.  Now, he loved him.  Now, it seemed like he 
always had.
 
Fate had set him on this path, no matter how he battled it.  This cycle of 
life seemed but a spiral of ever growing love.
 
And there was nothing to be done, for Celeborn was wed to Galadriel.  
Though Haldir was as close a friend as either high elf had and he knew 
that their passion had long faded to friendship.  He knew also that every 
few years, they permitted themselves one indulgence.  On Midsummer’s 
eve, one or the other would take a lover for the night.
 
If this was odd, it was not spoken of.  If this was offensive, it was ignored.  
And still Haldir wondered at his majesties.  
 
For over the centuries he had espied Galadriel’s lovers.  Male, female, 
young, old, dark-haired or light… it never seemed to matter.  But each one 
was an exceptional beauty of the heart: loving and good and kind.  
 
But Haldir had also noticed Celeborn’s indulgences.  Male.  Always male.  
And this made him wonder, and this made him hope.  For why should not 
the Lord one Midsummer’s eve ask Haldir to his bed for the night?
 
It was devoutly to be wished for.
 
But Haldir also knew, should this offer ever come, he would have to 
refuse.  It would be far too tempting to believe the lie, and he feared the 
damage to his heart would be too great for one night of bodily pleasure.
 
And he vowed to himself, until the day this love faded, the only pleasure 
to be found would be a lonely one.
 
Until this love faded… would it ever?
 
He could not know. 
 
So now, he lay on his simple bed in his simple flet at the northern edge of 
the city after Midwinter’s day, looking out northward to the darkening sky 
visible in patches through the golden leaves.
 
And he dreamed.
 
He dreamed, finding release the only way he knew how, by imagining a 
phantom lover with silver flaxen hair and strong, smooth hands; an elf 
Lord who would love him for more than a night, one who would always 
be with him, and whose love would match his own.
 
Haldir arched back, his head pressed to the pillow as he gripped himself in 
long, languid strokes, pale skin flushed with the heat of passion against the 
vibrant green quilt.  The last of the sun’s light wound its way through the 
trees to indirectly illuminate golden hair and sweat-slicked skin.
 
A sudden gasp broke through the otherwise silent room.  Haldir turned his 
head at the interruption, though did not cease his movements.  
 
A moon-silver head of hair intruded through the entrance to his winter 
home, great dark eyes peering up at him with intrigued confusion.
 
Haldir’s voice was level as he spoke.  “I distinctly recall teaching you how 
to announce your arrival at another’s home.  You do not simply barge in 
without warning.  Well, you’re here, you might as well come in.”
 
Unsure, Rumil finished his ascent, standing in silent awe of his eldest 
brother.  “What… what are you doing?”
 
Haldir smiled; it was not a friendly expression.  “Dear brother, are you so 
ignorant to the pleasures of the flesh?” he asked, continuing the steady 
motion of his hand, relaxed in immodest nudity as Rumil blushed an 
attractive pink where he stood shuffling his feet uncertainly.
 
The smile softened.  “My but you *are* an innocent.”  Remotely Haldir 
watched the young elf, flushing not only from embarrassment as he 
unblinkingly observed the scene before him.
 
Perhaps it would be prudent to stop, thought Haldir… but nay.  Not 
because of his brother’s foolishness; there would be little enough privacy 
back on the march.  Besides, Rumil had to learn of these things, one way 
or another.  “Well then.  Whatever your mission is, it will have to keep, 
for a moment.”  And Haldir again turned to face the ceiling.  He closed his 
eyes and saw his Lord’s face.  Only the slightest moan betrayed him as he 
tipped over the familiar precipice, coming over his hand without any 
acceleration of his movements.
 
Eyes the color of twilight opened to take in the sight of poor Rumil, 
uncomfortably aroused where he stood, his own dark eyes large and 
round.  “Well?” Haldir demanded impatiently.
 
“Huh?”
 
“Have you not brought some message for me?”
 
“Oh!  Well yes, but… I don’t understand…”
 
Haldir suppressed a sigh.  Gently he spoke, “Tell me.  What don’t you 
comprehend?”
 
“What you were doing…”
 
Haldir frowned.  Orophin’s education had been much simpler.  Their 
mother, Feagul, had still dwelled in Arda then.  All Haldir had had to do 
was point at the young maiden of the hour.  “Have at it.”  Those had been 
his words.  And Orophin had turned out just fine, if you asked Haldir.  A 
little loose with his affections, but that was quite all right.  Their mother 
had been as well, (evinced by the fact that her three sons each had 
different fathers.)
 
But this was something altogether unique.  He could see the hunger in 
Rumil’s wanting gaze.  “Do you know what it is to make love?”
 
“Yes.  You once told me.”
 
“Ah, so I did,” Haldir confirmed, recalling that rushed conversation.  
“‘This’ is what one does without a partner, to achieve only a quick release 
of pent up passions.  It is not a sharing, but a wholly selfish indulgence.  
One you should not be afraid of, especially at your age.”
 
“But,” Rumil slowly explained, “I should like to share myself.”
 
“Then find a lover.”
 
Rumil nervously licked dry lips.  “Can you not teach me?”
 
Haldir frowned.  “Indeed I cannot.  You are a brother to me, Rumil.  Find 
one who desires you.”
 
“It is not unheard of for brothers to show each other the ways of the flesh.”
 
Haldir’s frozen expression of shock slowly grew to an impressed smirk.  
“You little minx,” he seductively intoned.  “You’ve been listening to the 
eastern March again, haven’t you?  You are not in the wrong,” he allowed.  
“And if my life had been different, I might accept your plea for… 
education.  As it is, I have only one thing to teach you.  Come here.”
 
Rumil bravely strode forward even as he trembled, kneeling beside the 
low bunk as his brother indicated with a pointing finger.  Haldir smiled 
again, but this was a sweet expression rarely seen, filled with love.  Rumil 
returned it selflessly in a grin of his own.  Haldir caressed a blushing 
cheek and leaned forward, whispering, “Close your eyes.”
 
With a shudder, Rumil obeyed, dark lashes fluttering closed as he panted 
in shallow breaths.
 
The softest touch of lips fell on closed eyelids, and the hand never left his 
face.  Kisses lightly fell on brow, temple, cheek, chin, and nose before 
Haldir finally met Rumil’s lips.
 
Frozen in lustful uncertainly, Rumil’s mouth opened when a tongue 
begged entrance and there was such tenderness in the gesture, such love, 
Rumil could barely tolerate the sweetening, deepening bond.  
 
Still, Haldir retreated all too soon.
 
Panting and flushed and dazed, Rumil pleaded, “And you say that is… 
*all* you can teach me?”
 
Rumbling laughter filled the small room, but it was not mocking.  Haldir 
continued to chuckle as he turned, reaching for a damp cloth to clean the 
mess he’d made of himself.  “I’m afraid that is the limit of my lessons.”
 
Rumil opened those gleaming eyes and saw a fleeting flicker of what 
could have been regret in his brother’s expression.
 
“You are sweet, Rumil, but I would not serve as a lover.  The wheel of 
Fate has turned you to your adulthood.  Your coming of age.  And if you 
seek a lover, then the time is ripe to do so.  But, you have just been gifted 
with the extent of my experience.”
 
The young elf could not help blurting out, “You mean you never… ?!”
 
Haldir looked away, though not with shame.  “No, never.  My teacher was 
willing, but I was not.  I loved him as a mentor, not as a lover.”
 
“Who was this teacher who imparted so well his few lessons?”
 
“Glorfindel of Imladris.  You know,” Haldir said conversationally as he 
rose to dress, “he will be here for the Midsummer festival.  I shall 
introduce you.  You would make a grand ‘student.’”
 
Rumil went red again, but it was apparent that he did not oppose the idea.
 
“Or,” Haldir suggested, “Since you seem so keen on the idea, try your 
charms on Orophin.”
 
Rumil looked up with a practically scandalized expression on delicate 
features as his cheeks reddened deeper.
 
Haldir shook his head at the confusing reaction and continued dressing as 
he let the subject go, inquiring, “Again I ask, what is the reason for your 
visit?”
 
Rumil jumped to his feet with alarm.  “My goodness, you’ll be late!” he 
cried, reaching to help Haldir with his cloak.  “We have tarried too long; I 
was told to ask you to dine with the Lord and Lady of the Wood this eve.  
You’ve but moments!”
 
Sighing, Haldir reached for his daggers.  He was the only one to bear arms 
in Caras Galadon in times of peace, and he was fondly considered 
paranoid to some extent by many of the city’s residents for it.  Sheathing 
the weapons, he turned to exit the talan.  “I shall be late then; there’s no 
use dwelling on what cannot be changed.”
 
Together, they descended from Haldir’s hut-like talan through the hole in 
its floor.
 
Landing soundlessly, Rumil said, “I must prepare for our return to the 
border on the morn.”
 
Haldir nodded.  “I will see you and Orophin tomorrow, then, at dawn.  
Good eve, brother.”  And with that, Haldir shot away in the fading light, 
south through the mellyrn to the heart of the city, where his love and his 
love’s wife would be waiting.
 
***
 
Haldir’s thoughts drifted as he ran, long lopes carrying him steadily 
southward.  He might consider himself friend to both Lady and Lord, but 
he could not recall a single ‘dinner’ that was casual.  They had dined over 
many subjects in his long life, and he wondered what the case could be 
this time.  There were no troubles that he knew of, within or without the 
city, but every summons ignited a worry in him, recalling the few 
instances when dinner had merely been the excuse to impart to him bad 
news.
 
But then he calmed himself.  Of course.  It was the day after Midwinter, 
and if the Lord and Lady had any grand plans for the Midsummer festival, 
now would be the time to discuss them.
 
And Haldir already knew: the plans were indeed huge.  In fact, this 
summer’s festival had been quite a few years in the planning already.  
Haldir had only had a small hand in the preparations thus far, preferring to 
keep to his duty on the border.  But the great trust the Lord and Lady had 
in him was unspoken, and often times the most personal tasks that they 
could not attend themselves were trusted to Haldir of the March.
 
All the city knew this.  And if they thought him paranoid and proud, they 
also knew him to be immensely loyal and trustworthy.  He had delivered 
many a message in his life, and the elves of Lorien knew that his coming 
with tidings was never some small matter.
 
One message in particular he was accustomed to, and now was just the 
time for it to be delivered.  Lord Celeborn would invite his lover to join 
him Midsummer’s eve.  It had been many years since Haldir had been 
asked to attend this particular duty, so he would not be surprised if this 
evening Celeborn slipped a small scroll to him and whispered a name in 
his ear.  Galadriel would do the same, but she had taken a lover only the 
year before, and Haldir doubted she would take another so quickly, though 
he had been known to be wrong on this count before.
 
Six months of courting for one night of pleasure might seem long to some 
races, but the elves respected each other too greatly to pressure anyone on 
so grand a matter, and Haldir often waited many months before a reply 
was sent from the lover in question.  Sometimes it would be a refusal - for 
whatever reason - and the matter would be dropped for the season, or 
Haldir would be sent out again, but that was rarely the case.
 
He hated those damn courtship letters, fearing every year that he himself 
might be the target, of the Lord or his Lady.  He would consider either to 
be a personal catastrophe.
 
But that had never been the case, and so long had he served them that he 
now doubted it ever would be.
 
 
 
= = = = =
 
Chapter 2: The Task
 
The palace consisted of a series of ascending telain and twining stairways 
among a dozen great mellyrn in the heart of the city.  On the ground, amid 
grass and twig, was the welcoming hall, formed by great branches curving 
in arcs high overhead.  Several workers scattered throughout, finishing the 
renovations they had labored over the past few years.  Further on were the 
kitchens and other hidden rooms and servants’ quarters, and many elves 
were coming and going this time of day.  A white stair led to the first level 
of talan, which held an open court with rarely used thrones for the Lady 
and Lord.  Higher up were conference rooms and a careful series of 
twisting libraries.  Higher still were the homes of several of Lorien’s 
counselors and advisors.  Beyond that was a private dining area, and 
further up: the quarters of the Lord and Lady themselves.
 
Haldir reached the welcoming hall at a run.  One of his lesser sentries 
witnessed his hurried entrance and smiled, merely pointing upward as if to 
say, 'They wait upon your convenience.'  Haldir glowered quite fiercely, 
setting the younger elf to cowering, before he took to the great stairs.  Up 
and up he went, past the courts and meeting halls, past libraries and living 
quarters until he finally reached the entryway to a long talan.  There were 
no railings on this level, and past the empty length of the room was a small 
table where sat Celeborn and Galadriel.  
 
Haldir had halted at the door, silently watching as Lord Celeborn reclined 
in his chair in a rare instance of repose.  After a moment of observation, 
Haldir shifted his stance, the swishing of garments announcing his 
presence.  He only crossed the threshold when Celeborn looked up to bid 
him enter with a raised hand and friendly smile.  
 
The old elf watched the march-warden stride across the room and upon 
reaching the table, bow low.  “My Lord, my Lady, I apologize for my 
tardiness.”
 
“And you are excused,” Galadriel said, a twinkle in her eye, a smirk on 
fair lips, sending Haldir to nervous shudders as he wondered if she could 
see just what had been keeping him.  “Now, Haldir of the March, friend 
and trusted servant, join us.”
 
Haldir inclined his head, pulling out a finely carved chair to sit across 
from the pair, and fill his plate.
 
***
 
The light fare was delicious, and filling to elven stomachs.  They dined on 
the freshest produce from the Lady’s gardens and bread hot from the 
ovens, and sipped the finest wine, intermingled with light conversation 
about the previous day’s festival.
 
But as the dinner came to an end and the three elves finished off a sweet 
pudding, Galadriel finally got down to the root of his invitation.  “Tell me 
Haldir, what do you know of our upcoming festival of Byeltinyeh?”
 
Glad to be done with the courtesies, the elf set his goblet aside.  “I know 
that this year’s Midsummer festival has been planned with utmost care and 
attention to detail.  The Lord of Imladris and his family, along with about 
half his household will attend, as will a contingent of elves from 
Mirkwood, though I understand Thranduil the King is not… inclined to 
come himself.”
 
“Aye, you have it correctly,” Celeborn nodded, pushing away his own 
chalice.  “And we are determined to make this celebration unlike any 
occasion Arda has yet known.”
 
A small smile tipped Haldir’s lips in his usual smirk. “This I have seen.  
The welcoming hall has undergone some great renovations these past 
years.  Now I know why: the hall has become a dance floor, and the 
bonfire pit enlarged, yes?  The weavers have been busy… do they then 
prepare decorative tapestries and elegant costumes for these nights of 
feasting?  And I couldn’t help but notice an increase in attention to the 
fruit trees this year, for the finest food imaginable I presume, and I know 
your employ of staff in the winery has increased as well.  All this for three 
nights of celebration?”
 
“You’ve hit the mark every time,” Celeborn confirmed, impressed at 
Haldir’s deductions.  He grinned at Haldir’s perception and the warden 
returned the expression, though quickly turned away again.
 
“But we want this to be more than a ritual observation, more than a 
gathering of friends,” Galadriel coolly explained.  “This shall be an 
occasion no one will ever forget, a chance to join most deeply our bodies 
to our souls in the Great Feast of Byeltinyeh.”
 
“To do this,” Celeborn continued, “My Lady has thought to resurrect an 
old custom, a tradition that I fear may have been lost through the ages in 
fear and doubt.”
 
When the conversation lapsed, Haldir asked, “And what is this ancient 
secret you speak of?”
 
Galadriel leaned forward in her seat, a light of intrigue and happy 
anticipation in her endless eyes.  Her voice was secretive indeed and low 
as she spoke, “Have you ever heard of The Dance?”
 
Frozen in uncertain shock for a moment, Haldir’s face then lit up in a 
disbelieving grin.  “The Dance?” he asked, laughing, “But that is just a 
myth!”  Observing Celeborn’s sober expression and Galadriel’s intensely 
serious one, Haldir’s grin faded as his eyes flicked back and forth between 
the two ancients.  “…Isn’t it?”  
 
The powerful elves shared a look before Galadriel answered.  “The 
Dance,” she explained, “Is an ancient tradition.  No one can tell of its 
origins or even how it ever came to be or why.  Also, few are gifted with 
the ability to perform this feat of magic, even if they have the knowledge.  
For nearly two ages of this world, The Dance was considered a profane 
offense, punishable by exile.  At the dawning of the third age, this ban was 
lifted, but the deed itself is still considered forbidden.  None would dare to 
do this thing on their own.  But the world is a free place where all aspects 
of ourselves should be embraced.  We want to celebrate that.”
 
As she spoke, Haldir’s mind had calmed, and it seemed that ageless voice 
called forth images of times long past, deeds long misunderstood, and 
hope for a new acceptance - a new freedom among the firstborn.  For a 
moment, the March Warden seemed lost to memories that were not his 
until he realized the voice had ceased, and silence reigned in the open 
room among the high trees.
 
He hadn’t realized his eyes were closed until he opened them, seeing his 
Lady’s hopeful face, pale and new and beautiful before him.  Still, he 
doubted.  “Let’s say you are right,” he began for the sake of argument.  
“Why are you telling me?”
 
Celeborn was the one to answer, his deep tenor soothing and his eyes kind.  
“Besides my Lady and myself, you are the only one we trust to do this 
thing.”
 
A raised eyebrow questioned this trust.
 
Celeborn sighed wearily.  “Our many counselors and advisors are good 
and honest elves, but they are simply too…”
 
“Stuck in their ways,” Haldir said bluntly.  “They would not approve the 
wisdom of your ambition, nor willingly pursue it.”
 
The Lord and Lady shared a knowing smile.  They had chosen Haldir for a 
reason.
 
“So,” he continued, “when they do not serve your needs, you turn to the 
ever reliable March Wardens.  And yet,” Haldir leaned back, tipping on 
the legs of his chair as he thought a moment.  “The eastern March 
Captain…  Annaglar would take up your cause enthusiastically, but his 
tendency for talk is far too great a risk, as I imagine you’d rather retain 
SOME air of mystery regarding the eve’s entertainment.  On the other 
hand, Cudae, Captain of the southern March and the son of a Lord, would 
speak not a whisper of your plots, yet blushes at the mention of courtship; 
he is far too old fashioned.  And Din-alqua of the west, bless her heart, is 
simply too young for whatever it is you have in mind.  So, you turn to 
Haldir, ever subtle in his unending loyalty,” he sighed at his almost 
humorous though highly accurate description of himself, “to… do what, 
exactly?”
 
“To go out into our lands,” Celeborn decreed.  “There must be someone in 
Lorien who knows the art.  We are certain, if there is, you will find him or 
her.  Besides, any simple sentry sent on such a mission would probably 
not glean the truth, and you are right: people here know and respect you, 
Haldir.  They have faith in your honesty and,” he grinned, “subtlety.  As 
do we.  That is why we ask this of you; that is why we charge you with 
this task.  Short of Galadriel or myself going out to do this same thing, 
there is no other way.”
 
Haldir nodded his agreement.  “And you’ve not the time to pursue this 
matter; I understand.  Very well,” he said, standing from the table.  “A 
most… unusual request.  But if there is any in our wood who knows the 
Art of The Dance, I will find them.”
 
“Excellent,” Celeborn said, rising to dismiss the guardian.  “You have half 
a year.”
 
 
 
= = = = = 
 
Chapter 3: The Search
 
Two sentries of the northern border sat together on a large boulder beneath 
Haldir’s city flet.
 
“Do you think he’s hung-over?”
 
“Haldir?” Orophin exclaimed.  “Never.  He’s far too responsible to have 
been drinking.”
 
“He’s never been this late before,” Rumil pointed out, watching the 
change of light in the forest as the sun cleared the unseen horizon.
 
“He’s never been late at all,” the other agreed.
 
“I am not late.  I am simply not early.”
 
The brothers jumped in surprise, turning to stand in awe of their elder 
sibling.  
 
“For shame,” Haldir criticized.  “You return to the borders for watch-duty 
in a day but could not even hear my obvious approach?  You are out of 
practice.”
 
Rumil began his argument.  “We simply did not expect-”
 
“A Guardian must always expect.  Enemies.  Deception.  Trespassers.  
Danger.  There is no excuse for your slip.  Either of you.”
 
The sentries bowed their heads at the reproach.
 
When Orophin looked up again, worry settled on his features.  “Where are 
your things, Haldir?”
 
Seeing that he was indeed without his longbow, Rumil adopted his 
brother’s expression.  “Do you not return to the border with us?”
 
Haldir shook his head, handing Orophin a scroll.  “Nay I do not.  Give that 
letter to First Lieutenant Thinthoron; he will stay on as your Captain this 
season as the Lord and Lady demand my services elsewhere.  I shall see 
you at Midsummer.”
 
When they made no reply, Haldir waved at them.  “Off with you, now.  Or 
else you will be late!”
 
So, the brothers had no choice but to go their way, leaving a mystery 
behind with only a long march ahead.
 
***
 
After packing himself a few loaves of lembas, Haldir set off northward 
himself, in a slightly more western direction than his brothers had taken.
 
A swift jog cleared his mind and a day of such travel brought him to his 
destination by dusk.  Here, near the northwestern edge of Lorien, the trees 
were shorter but grew closer together.  A darkness hung here unlike the 
normal light of Lorien, though it was not oppressive, and Haldir smiled to 
hear the wind setting a thousand chimes to tinkling where they hung in 
copper and bamboo rods from the highest branches in the distance.  It 
created a calming sort of music and he remembered it well from his 
childhood.
 
He walked silently within this dark-seeming forest, stopping at a certain 
point, a border undefined by any physical means.  He peered through the 
trees, but the many low leaves obscured his vision and he could make out 
no disturbance in the oldest growth of Lorien.
 
Tipping his head to the breeze, he discerned through the sound of wind-
rustled branches and far away chimes the distant tone of a light-hearted 
humming.  He grinned.
 
“Old witch!  Old witch!  Let me come in!” he called out in a clear, ringing 
voice.
 
The far-off singing ceased and within moments, a figure swathed in green 
silks came sweeping through the trees.  Long white hair fell past a humped 
shoulder to trail close to the forest floor.  Great green eyes sparkled at the 
sight of him and a smile lit the ancient face.  “Haldir, dearheart, it is you!”  
Arms opened to accept him in a warm embrace, heartily returned by the 
March Warden.
 
“Aye, Iarwen,” he sighed, holding her close.  He smiled: she smelled the 
same as she had years ago, of hearthsmoke, ainereg, tea, and magic.
 
“You have been away too long,” she scolded kindly, stepping back to look 
at him, though both had remained the same over the course of time.  His 
stately features were unchanged, though the deep violet eyes held, 
perhaps, a bit more wisdom.  And she still hunched under the weight of a 
disfigured shoulder, but the clear beauty of her lined face was untouched 
by time.  She sighed with a false air of indignation.  “What do you need 
this time?”
 
When he only grinned, she laughed, a high warbling music to his ears.  
“Oh but for shame, it seems I must mind my manners after all: come in, 
come in!”
 
***
 
She was called Iarwen, Old Maiden, and her true name was long forgotten.  
She was a sort of beautiful old crone who concealed herself at this the far 
northwestern corner of Lorien, and few dared to seek her out, despite her 
age and wisdom.  She had been old when Galadriel was a babe.  She could 
remember the time before time.  But Haldir knew her well.
 
Like one of the race of Men, she dwelt in a low cottage on the ground, 
situated in a clearing surrounded by oaks and rowans and birch trees.  
From the ground beside the garden, a clear pool burbled up, winding in a 
small stream away to the west.
 
Haldir was guided within the homely hut lit by the happy yellow light of 
many candles and a small hearth fire.  It was full of strange smelling herbs 
and old scrolls, and the scent of magic filled the air.  A huge pale pink 
crystal, flat and reflective, stood in one corner.  Haldir knew it was a 
diviner’s tool, but to him it seemed only a huge mirror.  Plenty of dead 
things hung from the ceiling, things which had once been plants or birds.  
Crockery and ironware, tools of kitchen and hearth, lay sprawled about on 
sturdy tables scarred with age.  Books - held together more with magic 
than by their bindings - lay along shelves beside hundreds of clear glass 
and crystal vials full of what he suspected were powerful potions and bits 
of bugs and other creepy crawlies.  Iarwen moved about the place 
blending in so well with her surroundings.  Both she and her home were 
marked by age but touched with a deep beauty.
 
Haldir felt it was like coming home, and when she handed to him a deep 
purple elixir that smelled of elderberry, he drank it without question, the 
sweet brew calming him into a welcome relaxation.  “I have stayed away 
too long,” he mourned.  “Your mothering touch is a welcome one, Iarwen; 
I have missed you.”
 
Sitting in ancient oaken chairs before the hearth, she eyed him curiously.  
“And I you.  But we cannot always dote on each other; your duty lies not 
with me, Haldir.  I am merely grateful for your company whenever it can 
be had,” she told him truthfully.  “But I sense this visit is not for mere 
leisure and repose.”
 
Haldir sadly shook his head.  “I come on a mission from the Lord and 
Lady.”
 
“My, my,” she marveled, “You have come up in the world.  And here I’d 
thought the good Lady had forgotten me.”
 
“They did not send me to you,” he clarified, “but you are the only one I 
know who can help me.”
 
Iarwen smiled her mysterious smile.  Haldir sighed, knowing he’d be 
seeing much more of that look if she had anything to say about it.  
“Enough with the mysteries, Dir.  What do you seek?”
 
Haldir let out a hesitant puff of breath.  Setting aside the empty cup, he 
leaned forward with the importance of his mission shining in the open 
depths of his eyes.  “I seek one who can perform The Dance.”
 
Iarwen’s only response to this was a raised brow.
 
“To perform on the night of Byeltinyeh.  Our Lady desires it.”
 
“Our Lady is good and wise,” was the immediate non-answer.
 
“Indeed,” he said, waiting for her to proceed.
 
Again, Iarwen smiled.  “And why do you come to me?”
 
“Do not ask questions you already know the answer to, old witch,” he 
lightly rebuked her.  “You are a mistress of the Old Traditions.  You are 
the *only* one I know with any of the Old Knowledge, if Galadriel does 
not know.  And she has told me herself that she does not.”  Haldir frowned 
now as he spoke.  “If you – you who know ancient secrets and brew 
forbidden potions, you who helped to teach and raise me as your own, you 
who know the mysteries of The Dance – if you cannot tell me who can do 
this thing, then I am at a loss.”
 
Reading the quiet trouble in his turbulent eyes, Iarwen shifted from her 
seat, coming to kneel before him and take his strong hands in her own.  
“Haldir, dearheart, you and I both know I’ve the knowledge but not the 
skill.  Feagul, your most beautiful mother, left these shores long ago.  And 
I have only ever had one student, one pupil bright and brave and talented 
enough to do this.”
 
For a halting moment, silence reigned as Haldir smiled grimly.  “Then it is 
as I feared.”
 
***
 
When the old witch failed him, Haldir covered all the land of Lorien, 
seeking out the lonely, the wise, the old. He sought the families who 
followed the oldest traditions, the scholars who studied the oldest scripts, 
and the eldest among elves who remembered back to a time when such 
things had not been forbidden.
 
But this search was fruitless.
 
***
Five months after the Winter Feast, Haldir received another summons.  
The message delivered to his home instructed him to bring with him The 
Dancer in three days’ time to meet with the Lord and Lady.
 
***
 
So it was a fortnight before the Midsummer Festival when he again turned 
up on the borders to Iarwen’s ancient home, a proud but forlorn form on 
her ancient doorstep.
 
“I have a favor to ask…”
 
 
 
= = = = =
 
Chapter 4: The Report
 
Haldir led the way up the winding flat stairway past the welcoming hall to 
the throne room.  There were no attendants nor counselors, no advisors nor 
other hangers-on, only Celeborn and Galadriel waiting with remote 
patience and cool welcome.  For this privacy, Haldir was eternally 
grateful.  He approached to bow before his king and queen, for this is what 
they were to him even if they claimed no such titles.  “My Lord.  My 
Lady.”
 
“Haldir of the Guard,” Celeborn greeted him.  Haldir could see curiosity in 
those silver eyes, for he had apparently disobeyed a direct order, an order 
to present The Dancer.  There was no offense or anger, but he could see 
they were eager for news.  “You were sent on a mission by me,” the Lord 
proceeded, ever kind and kingly, though Haldir could see also amusement 
in the elf’s fair face.  “In five months, what have you learned?”
 
Haldir’s grin was self-deprecating and rather dismal.  “I have learned that 
very few have the same faith that you do.  Fewer could tell me of The 
Dance at all.  And in all your lands, I have found but one elf capable of the 
Art itself.”
 
When Haldir halted altogether, Celeborn leaned forward in anticipation, 
almost on the verge of reprimanding his March Captain.  “And you were 
instructed to escort The Dancer hither, were you not?”
 
“I was,” Haldir conceded.  “But in my research I have uncovered much 
about The Lost Ways.  The tradition of The Dance is accompanied by 
many small rituals and customs that have been buried in the past, and one 
of its most important aspects is the Mystery that surrounds it.  In long ages 
past, beyond my reckoning, when Old was new and when the elder among 
us were still young, a Dancer was more than entertainment or mere 
profession.  A Dancer was eroticism and joy and above all, Mystery.  
Thus, I have brought with me not The Dancer himself, but his Attendant.  
If you will permit it, she will speak to you privately about this matter, for I 
can tell you no more.”
 
As Haldir spoke, Celeborn listened with wide-eyed fascination.  Galadriel 
remained distant as she observed both what Haldir said and what he did 
not say.  She also watched Celeborn’s reaction.
 
And when her husband turned to her in silent inquiry, she said, “Let it be 
done.”
 
Haldir stepped aside, bowing as a stooped form in a long black cloak 
glided into the room.
 
The stranger also bowed before thin white arms reached up to pull back 
her hood.
 
As one, Galadriel and Celeborn rose from their thrones and reverently 
ducked their heads in courtesy to one older than they.  The Lady spoke.  
“Welcome, Iarwen, to Caras Galadon.  It seems that my wisdom of ages is 
plagued also with forgetfulness, for I do not see how I could have 
neglected your aid in this matter.  Haldir was wise to seek you out.”  
Turning to the one in question, she ordered, “You may leave us.”
 
Again did Haldir make his obeisance before leaving as silently as he had 
come.
 
Alone with the ancient crone, Celeborn watched as Galadriel descended 
the steps to confront the Old One.  Iarwen smiled.  “You have not grown 
forgetful, but prideful,” she admonished the Lady of the Golden Wood.  
“But it is a pride worthy of a seer such as yourself.  I think it is better that I 
am forgotten in these days of peace, and minimally feared by my fellows.  
I should hate to be bothered every day of the year by distraught elves who 
think to solve all their problems with a potion or a spell.”
 
Galadriel saw the humor, the eternal amusement in that wise old face, and 
smiled with relief.  “They are not so bothersome as all that,” the Lady 
offered.
 
“No indeed, they respect you far too much to be loitering about your 
mirror and begging favor where they are not wanted.  But I have not come 
to speak of your magic.”
 
“You have come on behalf of my request to give the gift of The Dance to 
the elves of Arda,” Galadriel wondered, still amazed that she had all but 
dismissed this old elf whose age was unknown, whose knowledge was 
boundless.
 
“I have.”
 
“Will you come above?” Celeborn asked.
 
“It would be best,” Iarwen agreed.  “The less chance of being overheard, 
the better, for the Mysteries are powerful and sacred.”
 
So, the three elves climbed up to the highest flet where Galadriel’s private 
quarters lay high above the rest of the city.  They sat themselves round a 
cozy table and Celeborn prepared the tea, listening to the ladies speak.
 
“As a rule, I would tell only what you need to know,” said Iarwen.  “But I 
trust you, my good Lady, my kind Lord.  So I will tell you more,” she 
promised with that intriguing grin.
 
The Lord returned with the tea to join them, and Celeborn and Galadriel 
listened in silent awe, the innocence and wonder in their faces reminiscent 
of children gathered round to hear a new tale of adventure, and they fell 
into the story that Iarwen wove with her ancient tales.
 
“You know of the Themes that surrounded our creation, Songs that had 
more than melody and harmony, Songs that took form and are weaved into 
the very fiber of our bodies and the essence of our souls.  When the 
firstborn came into existence, they were close to these songs, and sang 
them over and over, though they ever changed and grew.  And though 
time passes slowly for us, it does pass.  And though we are brave and free, 
even elves are plagued by doubt and fear.  And for this reason, many 
traditions have been lost to us.  
 
“The Dance was a revered Act.  It was practiced rarely and only in times 
of celebration.  The Dance was an Art of expression.  And this is how it 
works: The Dancer summons within himself the essence of those ancient 
melodies, harmonies, and variations.  He employs movement, rhythm, 
song to express the primal urges within us all, the lust and passion and 
also the most driving force in each of us, not to procreate but to share 
ourselves with another.  The Dance is not about release or sex itself, but 
about making connections.  Any who witness The Dance are caught in its 
magic – its Song – and as physical beings we are overwhelmed by the 
spiritual nature of this act that words cannot describe.  It connects the body 
to the soul.  It connects the heart to the mind.  And it drives us to connect 
our individual self to another.  
 
“And it is dangerous; it is perilous, this must be understood.  For the union 
that The Dance drives us to make is not only physical, but also spiritual.  
Any bonds formed as a result of The Dance are in some way permanent, 
and go beyond pleasure and love.
 
“Yes, that is why it was feared, that is why is was banned.  That is why 
this Old Knowledge has been lost.  But if you think today’s people are 
ready to accept it without fear, to turn to each other in joy and open 
acceptance, then I will help to bring this ancient Art back.”
 
Galadriel nodded and finally spoke.  “I am ready.  They are ready.  I have 
read it in their hearts.”
 
Iarwen nodded.  “Then this is what shall happen…”
 
 
 
= = = = = 
 
Chapter 5: The Plan
 
For two weeks Haldir had traveled between the bustling city and Iarwen’s 
isolated home, relaying news and meeting guests and coming back to revel 
in the peace and quietude to be found in the ancient forest, and comforted 
by his old teacher.  The sun was setting on the eve before Midsummer’s 
Eve as he trotted uninvited past the border to her land and to the cottage.
 
Iarwen looked up from a steaming iron pot as he entered.  “Welcome 
back.  Have a seat with me by the hearth, Haldir, and tell me your news.”
 
He nodded wordlessly, accepted a cup of the hot brew after hanging up his 
cloak, and sat on one of those huge solid oak chairs before the fire.  
Iarwen soon joined him, an ancient pipe dangling from thin lips.  A sweet 
smelling herb burned in its bowl, wafting through the air.
 
Haldir curiously wrinkled his nose, sniffing.  He could smell ainereg, but 
also something else.  “What is that?”
 
“Ainereg.”
 
“Isn’t that what they burn in sickrooms?” he inquired.
 
Iarwen grinned that calculating smile of hers.  “Mmm, yes.  It soothes, 
relaxes…”
 
“Kills pain,” Haldir finished.
 
“Yes.  But there’s also a bit of dinbrethil,” she admitted.
 
Haldir shook his head.  “I worry about you: be careful with that weed, 
Iarwen.”
 
She waved off his concern about the hallucinogenic plant and she smoked 
while he sipped his drink in silence before she asked, “Well?  Tell me of 
the first night’s proceedings!”
 
Haldir smiled distantly.  It had been the first night of Festival, and it had 
been an affair to remember.  “Yesterday was a fiasco to be sure.  The Lord 
and Lady have surpassed all expectations.  Lord Elrond and Lady 
Celebrian along with their children are simply delighted with everything, 
but the host from Mirkwood seemed quite overwhelmed.”
 
“Thranduil did not attend, I know.  Who on Middle Earth did he send in 
his stead?”
 
Haldir grinned mischievously.  “He sent his youngest son.”
 
“Oh?” she asked with a mouthful of smoke.
 
“Yes indeed.  Prince Legolas is barely older than Rumil, and he has never 
been to the Wood before, nor met our Lord and Lady.  It was quite 
amusing to watch him wander about open-mouthed at everything.  I do 
believe the elves of Lorien and Imladris are rather more relaxed than those 
of the north, and he blushed at half the entertainment, as did most of his 
kith and kin.  But really, everyone is having a grand time.”
 
“Those of Imladris,” she asked, “Is Glorfindel among them?  I do miss 
him so…”
 
“Oh yes,” Haldir’s grin widened.  “Glorfindel is there.  I was very glad to 
see him; we spent some time together today.  I introduced him to Rumil.”  
By now, his grin was maniacal.
 
Iarwen leant forward in her excitement.  “Do tell!”
 
Haldir laughed.  “I had told Glorfindel of Rumil’s sudden interest in the 
matters of love, as well as his reluctance.  This is what transpired: I pulled 
Rumil from whatever corner he was hiding in and took him straight to 
Glorfindel, waiting in all his glory in the Midsummer candle grove - to 
better highlight his features, you understand.  ‘Glorfindel, this is Rumil,’ 
was my introduction, upon which the old elf said nothing but simply 
smiled and promptly pulled my brother into a crushing embrace, kissing 
him full on the lips!”  The two elves shared in a bout of laughter.  “They 
have not been parted since!  Though Rumil was red as a beet, I believe 
he’s more than happy with the situation.”  He did not add to his story the 
image burned into his mind of Orophin hanging like a curious vulture 
from a low talan, spying on this exchange with fearful disapproval.
 
“Oh splendid!” Iarwen pronounced.  “It seems his wheel has turned!  I do 
wish I’d the energy to attend, but our march to the city tomorrow will 
wear me down enough.  What is happening today?”
 
“Well, yesterday was a time of introductions, meetings new and old.  It 
was a relaxed environment, people going from dinner to dance to games.  I 
don’t truly know of everything that is happening tonight, but I’ve had it 
from the seneschal that dinner is less formal, people eating what and when 
they please, and etcetera.  But there is much more dancing and singing 
tonight; and, I believe, more wine.”
 
“Then tomorrow is Byeltinyeh,” Iarwen said with a smoky sigh.  “It has 
been so long since I’ve seen a festival…  And I suppose everyone knows 
of The Dance?”
 
“Aye,” he agreed, smiling no more.  “It is only spoken of in whispers.  
People still fear the Old Ways…”
 
“And?”
 
“And they are intent on witnessing it.”  Again he let out a heavy breath of 
air.  “Perhaps fear is too strong a word.  I trust in Galadriel; if she says that 
the elves of Arda are ready for this, then I believe her, but still they doubt.  
They do not understand.”
 
“But they will.”
 
“Aye,” he murmured.  “They will.”
 
Iarwen sensed his melancholy.  Abruptly, she asked, “If you do not want 
to perform The Dance, Haldir, why did you agree to do so?”
 
His turbulent violet eyes looked away from the fire to meet her gaze.  
“Because my Lady asked it.”
 
Iarwen nodded in sober understanding.  “And you feel you’ve a duty.”
 
“I have,” he assented.  He rose from the chair to pace slowly along the 
stone hearth before the fire.  “My mother would have wished it.  She was 
an excellent Dancer.”
 
“I wish I could have seen her Dance.”
 
Haldir nodded absently.  “You were right, Iarwen.  It is a gift.  It is in the 
blood…  You know, before she left, she said that neither of my brothers 
had the ability.  I never understood how she could know that…”
 
“Your mother saw many things.”
 
“Perhaps she did.”  He sat again, the fatigue and worry finally visibly in 
his slumping form and in his tired eyes.  “I miss her, Iarwen.  I do not 
understand why she went away…”
 
“The time comes soon when all elves will follow her path.  To the Sea.  To 
the West.  You will see Feagul again.”
 
“I will not,” Haldir quietly denied.
 
Shocked, Iarwen set aside the pipe and knelt before him, taking his hands 
and peering with searching worry into his solemn eyes.  “What do you 
mean?” she asked in slow, quiet words.
 
“I did not need you to tell me the future of our people.  The elves will 
leave Middle Earth.  I’ve always known this.”  He laughed grimly to 
himself.  “Perhaps I’ve a touch of foresight after all.  But I will not go with 
them.  I am connected to this Earth, Iarwen.  I am connected to it just as I 
am bound to the ancient Song of The Dance.  I will not die, but neither 
will I leave.”
 
Terrified at the prospect, Iarwen breathed out a whisper, “But how do you 
know this?”
 
Haldir shrugged helplessly, and she saw in him a shadow of the sweet 
child he had been an age ago.  “I just know.”
 
***
 
The next day, Haldir woke long before the sun.  He bathed in the stream 
outside, and Iarwen could literally see how he mentally prepared himself 
for that night’s performance.  Any concerns, any normal worries or fears 
or distractions were shed like an old skin.  There appeared about him a 
sudden center of calm, of resolute focus; a single-minded motivation 
overtook all else.  
 
He was withdrawn and quiet, though not sullen, and there was an 
unaccustomed air of power about him when he re-entered the sloping hut 
in a woolly green dressing robe.  Silently, he moved to the well-used 
kitchen area beside the hearth to prepare a special, secret tea.  He sat on 
the stone floor as he drank, oblivious to Iarwen patiently watching him 
where she sat in her chair.  She was surprised when he suddenly spoke.  
“You know, the costume my mother made faded to tatters years ago.  
There is little to be done to dispel the destruction of time,” he quietly 
mourned.
 
“Fear not,” she answered.  “I have already thought of this.”  She stood and 
retrieved a long wooden box from her room.  She joined Haldir on the 
hearth and set this between them.  Opening the hinged lid, she withdrew a 
shimmering, pale fabric that moved like quicksilver flowing in her hands.  
“Here now, what do you think?”
 
Haldir’s jaw dropped and his clay mug was distractedly set aside as he 
reached out to gingerly clasp the fragile silk between two archer’s fingers 
with an almost horrified expression on his regal face.  “…???…  Is it not a 
bit… risqué?” he finally asked of the brief, transparent cloth.
 
“Is it not supposed to be?” shot back the answer.
 
“Well,” he finally conceded, holding the costume up to the fire’s light.  “It 
will leave very little to the imagination.”
 
***
 
Within the privacy of his room - the only guest room but also the only 
place that truly felt like home - he removed his robe and closed his mind, 
focusing and training his thoughts to the task at hand.  He unconsciously 
hummed an echo of The Dance as he continued his preparations.
 
A fine-toothed wooden comb blessed with lavender oil tamed his hair into 
a waterfall of straight flaxen locks shimmering alternately gold and silver 
in the light.  When that was done he reached for a small potion bottle.  The 
musk was an ancient aphrodisiac, but an essential tradition.  Using a sort 
of primitive mister, he applied the perfume in a spray, coating his skin 
sparingly and careful to keep it out of his face, but he bent over and 
swished his hair about as he liberally doused his head in the fast-drying 
liquid.  He straightened and set the bottle aside distastefully; the stuff 
would probably stay in his hair for days…
 
Next, he reached for a golden powder.  Using a brush of bound feathers, 
he coated his entire body until he shimmered like some ancient god in the 
candlelight.  The golden hue highlighted his skin, seeming to make him 
glow, and it softened the harsher shadows and angles of his finely toned 
form.  
 
It was with a quiet anger that he marched to the box Iarwen had bestowed 
upon him, pulling out three pieces of cloth.  It really was most undignified, 
and he knew Iarwen had not woven such a skimpy thing out of spite; it 
was merely her idea of humor.  The loincloth was not purple, but a dark 
plum, almost black, and it seemed to weigh nothing in his hands as he 
*very* carefully situated it about himself before tying the knots harshly in 
the silken fabric, muttering about slippy, slidey women’s clothes.  He 
looked down at himself regretfully.  It covered the important bits.  Mostly. 
 
Eagerly did he pull out the pants, but the translucent material wouldn’t 
hide a thing.  He held the trousers to the light; the garment was actually 
quite fine, and he dreaded to think what its expense might be.  The pale 
lavender gleamed silver and whispered over his skin like a breath of air.  
Nervously did he clothe himself, but was faintly pleased with the final 
result once he’d tied the all the cords and straightened the dangling silver 
trimming.
 
They hung dangerously low on his hips, just over the flimsy satin 
loincloth.  Slit down either side in some nefarious fashion no doubt meant 
to titillate, the misty fabric gathered at his knees and again at his ankles 
with silver ties, creating flowing waves that would accent his movements.  
Silver embroidery accented the creation in swirling exotic patterns along 
the hemlines and silver tassels hung from his waist and knees in different 
thicknesses and lengths, giving the costume a bit more character.  On 
many of the tassels hung the traditional brass bells: very small, but very 
loud and beautiful when under the command of a capable Dancer.  Triple 
bands of these brass bells circled his ankles, and a strap of leather on each 
foot connected this ancient jewelry to the brass bell at each large toe.
 
Returning to the engraved box worn with age, Haldir retrieved the 
traditional Decoration.  There was a ring for each finger, and as he slipped 
them on, he marveled at the perfect fit, and the tiny stone settings and their 
fine craftsmanship.  Brass wrist cuffs there were also - which he 
considered a mockery of a warrior’s bracers - but he put them on.  Brass 
armbands that hugged his biceps were next.  Finally, he pulled out a fine 
circlet of mithril.  He smiled.  The filigree headpiece had been his 
mother’s and he slowly placed this on his head with reverence.  It formed 
a downward point at his brow and hanging from that point was a single 
pearl-drop diamond.  
 
Beside the last article of clothing was a small velvet bag drawn closed 
with a silk cord.  He opened this indigo pouch and poured into his hand a 
number of fine jewels.  Most were quite small, but there was an 
exceptionally large blue stone.  He might have thought it a sapphire if not 
for its pale hue, paler than clear winter skies.  He carried these over to the 
dresser where several pots and jars of powders and inks were laid out.  He 
set aside the smaller stones, taking the large jewel and coating one side 
with a clear paste.  He affixed the stone to his navel, holding it in position 
as the glue quickly dried.
 
The same paste was applied to the other jewels, which were carefully 
aligned along his hipbones and above his brows to his temples with the aid 
of a faded mirror over the dresser.
 
When this was done, he stood before the poor copper mirror, looking 
balefully at the performer’s make-up.  It had been many years since he’d 
attempted the paint, but his hand was steady as he reached for the finest 
brush.   Dipping it into the charcoal black ink, he outlined his eyes, 
drawing out the features and making them seem much larger than they 
were.  A treacherously dark violet was painted onto the delicate skin of his 
lids.  A lighter purple was tinted above that and he then painted the black 
ink into thin, arching eyebrows.  A subtle rouge accented his fine 
cheekbones and finally, he painted his lips a vicious, bruised red.  A light, 
transparent powder was dusted over his face, setting the paint so that it 
would not smear or run.
 
Lastly, he took up the final piece of clothing.  This small veil was of the 
same material as the pantaloons, silvery lavender and perfectly 
transparent.  More silver tassels and embroidery lined the top and bottom 
and with the utmost care he covered his nose and mouth, the fine silver 
cord winding over his ears and tying beneath the waves of hair.
 
He glowered to himself as he looked down, thinking this was probably just 
about the bravest, most humiliating thing he’d ever agreed to.
 
***
 
Stepping out from the room, he moved soundlessly despite the bells, 
coming to stand before the fire.
 
Sensing his presence, Iarwen looked up from some embroidery.  Her jaw 
dropped.
 
Arms crossed, he glared balefully down at her.  “What?”
 
Iarwen swallowed reflexively as she stared at the vision before her.  “You 
will be rousing more than bodies tonight, Dir,” she said.  “I foresee several 
broken hearts if you are not careful.”
 
Haldir lightened at her response, thinking he didn’t look so dreadful after 
all.  His familiar sneering smile appeared behind the veil.  “Let’s hope it 
does not come to that.  …Why *do* you keep staring so?” he asked of 
Iarwen, still motionless and wide-eyed.
 
“Why wouldn’t I?” she asked.  “Can you not see yourself, Haldir?”
 
“No.  I cannot.  Or I do not see what you see.”  Curious, he asked, “What 
am I to your eyes?”
 
With this, Iarwen stood and took his hand, leading him over to the pale 
crystal looking glass that stretched up from the floor.
 
Haldir, too, gulped rather audibly at the sight of his golden form so 
revealed.  “*Very* little to the imagination,” he muttered, seeing how firm 
muscles flexed minutely under pale golden skin, the veil adding to the 
mystery of his presence.  Indeed, if he did not know himself so well, he 
would not recognize the reflection.  “Will anyone even know me for 
Haldir the March Warden?”
 
“I doubt it.  You are, for the night, only The Dancer.   The Artist.  And 
you will charm them all.”  Standing beside him, gazing at that exotic 
reflection, she revealed, “Sex personified.  That is what you are to my 
eyes.  And The Dance will rouse every watcher to previously unknown 
heights.”
 
With difficulty, Iarwen pulled herself away, letting that remark sink in.  
She turned to the mantelpiece before returning to Haldir’s side.  
 
Looking down, he saw a pair of gold hoops in Iarwen’s white hand.
 
“They were your mother’s,” she softly explained.  “I was not sure…”
 
“Yes,” Haldir said firmly, watching with detachment as Iarwen cleansed 
the small earrings and swabbed the same cleanser on the lower lobes of his 
ears.
 
Without ceremony, she reached up and quickly drove the small charms 
through his flesh, one after the other.  There was hardly a drop of blood 
spilt and only a quick prick of pain that faded to a heating ache.
 
“Thank you,” he said stoically as they again turned to look in the mirror.
 
Unnerved at the appraising look she gave him, Haldir glared at her 
reflection only to be taken aback when she grinned, cat-like, at him.  “I 
stare for a different reason this time,” she told him.  “Haldir… never in a 
million years would I have guessed you wore a nipple ring,” she said, 
pointing to the gold hoop that decorated his chest over his heart.
 
Haldir smiled fondly.  “My mother gave it to me when I came into my 
majority.  She said it was tradition.  She said it was the token of a true 
Dancer.”
 
“In all my studies, I’ve never heard that,” Iarwen marveled. “Perhaps it 
truly is a Lost Tradition.”  She smiled again, an expression of joy and 
delight.  “I see your wheel is turning, Haldir.  Follow it well.”
 
***
 
Before first light, two cloaked figures - one in black; the other, grey - 
made their way from the small hut.  All day they marched south, 
sometimes walking, at others running on the smooth sward, and as the last 
light of the sun faded, they reached the green walls of Caras Galadon.
 
 
 
= = = = =
 
Chapter 6: The Dance
 
Swiftly, they jogged along the white stone road to the city gate on the 
southwest side.
 
Night had fallen when they reached the white bridge, the pair stopping to 
gaze upward into the trees that seemed alive with the light of ten thousand 
lanterns.  A rushing joyful music reached their ears where they stood.
 
Iarwen turned to Haldir and reached out to adjust his cowl.  She lowered 
the hood of the cloak to cover his face and nothing could be seen of him, 
neither what he wore nor who he was.  “Are you ready?”
 
“I am.”
 
“Are you nervous?”
 
Truthfully, he answered, “I am not.”
 
“Then let us go.”
 
Haldir followed now as she led the way over the bridge to the gates where 
they stood open in this era of peace.  The few guards there were vigilant, 
but this pair was expected, and they passed with welcome and the guards 
were left behind, plagued with an air of Mystery.
 
They continued down the empty lane but turned off the main path before 
the shimmering fountain beyond which the revelry began.
 
They moved as shadows on the fringes of the excitement, Iarwen enjoying 
the delights she had not witnessed in countless decades while Haldir kept 
distant watch over his brothers.
 
Sitting together on a low flet, the caped figures observed the activities in 
the welcoming hall where the traditional dance contest was held, 
storytellers competed, an illusionist performed, and many other 
amusements were beheld.
 
Haldir closed his eyes when a brazen horn was blown, shrill and loud, that 
reverberated among the trees.  It marked the mid of night.
 
At its call, the elves began to drift off, often in pairs.  The party grew more 
intimate as it grew smaller, and the last of the elves – still a great number 
– began to settle into their seats around the open hall.  When Celeborn and 
Galadriel seated themselves on their cushioned chairs at the hall’s end, the 
others followed suit: Elrond and Celebrian taking their places of honor to 
the right and Legolas on the left.  Haldir watched familiar faces as 
everyone followed the silent command.  Orophin sat alone, distant and 
sullenly watchful.  Rumil and Glorfindel snuggled together at the foot of a 
mallorn.  Haldir frowned.  He’d warned his brothers that they ought to 
skip the last performance of the night, but they had heard of the Old Way 
that would be revealed and were, apparently, determined to attend.  Haldir 
chose not to think on Orophin’s uncharacteristic actions; there was more 
to concern him at the moment.  
 
He fearfully wondered if they would recognize him.  He wondered the 
same of Glorfindel, and of Celeborn and Galadriel, for those three he had 
known most all his life.  He continued to watch as Elrond’s twin sons 
stood respectfully behind their father, and as Erestor shooed the young 
Lady Arwen off to bed with her nurse.  She was but fifty-nine years old, 
far too innocent for what was in store this evening.  Annaglar of the 
eastern march lounged on the grass with many other handsome young 
elves, all entwined together on the grassy glade.  Haldir watched with 
wonder as the ever-gentlemanly Cudae sat near them, flicking longing 
glances over at Annaglar, who was renowned for his way in the bedroom.  
Of all the…  Haldir hadn’t seen that coming.  He wondered…
 
But then a tug on his cloak distracted him from wandering thoughts, and 
he followed Iarwen down the tree and off into the nearby darkness, 
watching as she secretly traversed the shadows, throwing bags of herbs to 
each of the outlying bonfires, inviting a heady, foreign aroma to fill the 
air, before she stealthily returned to his side.
 
Haldir’s attention shifted when Celeborn rose, his tall form wrapped in 
crimson and gold.   Silence descended as the Lord stepped onto the edge 
of the tiled floor and spoke.  “Friends,” he greeted them, turning to look at 
Legolas.  “Family,” he continued, turning to his daughter and her husband.  
“Guests.  Welcome once more to our Byeltinyeh Feast.  On the three-
hundredth year of the third age, the Lady Galadriel and I offer for your 
enjoyment, The Dance.”  He took his seat once more, and it seemed the 
elves all held their breath in anticipation, looking to the only dark patch: 
the entryway to the circular floor opposite the Lord and Lady of the 
Golden Wood.
 
For a moment, all was stillness.  Then, a grey-robed figure glided out from 
the darkness.  Slow, rhythmic steps silently carried The Dancer to the 
center of the floor, where a bowed head acknowledged the Lord and Lady 
and then remained still as stone.  Iarwen in her black cape, though now 
unhooded with long white hair flowing down her back, followed and 
moved to The Dancer.  She inclined her head to the Lords and Ladies and 
Prince before coming round before the figure.  White hands unclasped the 
cloak, and she moved behind him before lifting away the gray shroud.  
 
The gasps from the younger elves were audible and The Dancer did not 
watch the expressions of wonder and joy overtake the audience, even as 
the heavy musk of the aphrodisiac rolled off him in waves to mingle with 
the strange incense floating in the air.
 
The pale form shimmered an unearthly gold before the watchers, waist-
long hair falling to shield a veiled face, long legs wrapped in pale lilac, 
bells shining in the firelight.  His beauty was, in a word, perfect.
 
There was no sound, but at the first rising of willowy arms, the first sway 
of slim hips, the first turn of a painted face, the magic had begun, and all 
in witness were held in thrall of the movement.
 
Rumil nearly shrieked when he caught sight of the flashing gold 
decoration at The Dancer’s chest.  His hand fluttered up to cover his open 
mouth at the sudden recognition, but he kept any words of exclamation to 
himself.
 
Then came the sound of the bells, a clanging rhythm, painfully slow as 
bare feet moved over the creamy clay tiles, hips undulating in a familiar 
rhythm, setting the bells to singing as raised arms and twirling steps called 
forth passion and pleasure.
 
A hawk-like turn of the head sent The Dancer’s hair flaring out in a wave 
as his volatile gaze caught Glorfindel’s attention.  The counselor’s blue 
eyes widened, seeing past Haldir’s disguise, but he made no other move, 
except to flash a knowing leer at The Dancer, who - for a flitting moment - 
returned the expression.
 
Sinuous movement called forth primal rhythm, a lost tempo taking up 
residence in every soul.
 
The arousal that washed over the hall was undeniable.  Labored breathing, 
sudden sweats, hungry gazes… all were directed at The Dancer, the exotic 
stranger who weaved and swayed and drowned all other sight and sound 
and feeling in meaninglessness.  
 
Rumil clutched tight to Glorfindel, who returned the embrace.
 
Firmly did Elrond and Celebrian clasp each other’s hands.
 
Elladan and Elrohir cleaved together in a relentless embrace.  
 
Cudae, Erestor, Legolas, and Iarwen watched in lonely mesmerism.  
 
Galadriel felt the Song awaken the primeval urges within her, but she 
could not help watching the unmistakable connection between The Dancer 
and Lord Celeborn.
 
Motionless was the Lord, his face lit with untempered lust, his unwavering 
gaze fixed on this enchanting Dancer.  The inherent familiarity beneath the 
exotic exterior called to his body and to his heart; he could not refute this 
overwhelming desire.
 
And the unknown Dancer, a familiar smirk in place, played to all the 
audience, but ever did he return his violet gaze to Celeborn, a needful 
expression on his own obscured features.
 
Galadriel smothered a gasp.  She knew that figure, that seemingly strange 
being.  His smirking expression was unmistakable despite the veil and the 
paint and air of Mystery.  And again Galadriel chastised herself for not 
seeing what had always been before her.
 
The Dance strove to draw forth an audience that was already hooked, and 
it seemed a groan rolled through them when he added the final component 
to his spell.  His low hum, an erotic groaning purr, echoed that very music 
from the beginning of time, the original Song of lust and frenzy, the Song 
of sin and delight.  This haunting melody, rolling and suggestive, 
combined with the swaying hips, the clanging chimes, the musky scent, 
overwhelming those present with sensation.
 
The thrusting movements, the driving sound of the bells, and the primitive 
growling voice weaved a work of art that had not been publicly witnessed 
for over an age as he danced as a turning wheel, and the watchers found 
themselves lost in all-consuming eroticism.
 
Within each and every being, blood now flowed in a heated pace, that 
ancient Song singing in their veins.
 
And when The Dancer ceased, coming to rest in his original pose, silence 
reigned once more.
 
 
 
= = = = =
 
Chapter 7: The Request
 
Lightly did Iarwen glide forth, banishing the lingering infatuation as she 
covered the bowing Dancer in the formless grey cloak.
 
It would be unfair to say there was a stampede to the bedrooms, but it was 
pretty close.  
 
Haldir watched the audience’s exit from behind the thin weave of the grey 
hood that hid his face, and so too did Galadriel.  
 
Haldir curiously observed Orophin, who sat in dour melancholy as he 
intently watched someone on the other side of the glade.  Haldir swiftly 
followed his line of vision to see Rumil and Glorfindel making a hasty 
retreat.  The two elves were absorbed in one another, and Orophin 
watched them not as a protective brother, but as one with jealousy and 
regret in his eyes.  Haldir felt his heart nearly break at the sight, but 
seemed rooted to the spot and could not move as Orophin abruptly rose 
and stalked in well-hidden anger and guilty remorse into the surrounding 
darkness.
 
Shaken, Haldir watched the darkness for many moments, but Orophin did 
not reappear, and The Dancer eventually turned his attention to other 
happenings in the hall.
 
He and the Lady of the Wood curiously watched young Legolas where the 
Prince sat in uncomfortable solitude.  Apparently, his Mirkwood fellows 
had abandoned him, and the young elf did not notice who had approached 
until he looked up at the two identical figures standing before him, each 
reaching out a hand.  Legolas said nothing, but smiled as he accepted their 
hands up and walked with the sons of Elrond into the forest.
 
Especially intrigued by one scene in the shadowy distance, Haldir 
observed Cudae where he stood passively against the bole of a great 
mallorn.  Annaglar softly approached his fellow March Captain, smiling.  
But this was not his usual lascivious grin, no; Annaglar’s expressive 
features held both hope and doubt, both lust and affection.  Haldir smiled 
to himself even as his eyes widened at the sight of the repressed Cudae 
offering a heated, blundering kiss.  They, too, joined hands and made swift 
exit through the trees.
 
Lord Elrond and the Lady Celebrian looked eager to depart, and Galadriel 
wondered at their reluctance to leave the floor… until she saw Erestor 
slinking off into the darkness.  Lord Elrond called out into the night, and 
the Lady of the Golden Wood could hear his words.  “Erestor!”  The elf 
halted.  “Be not alone tonight.”  The Lord and Lady of Imladris beckoned 
to their seneschal, who hesitantly turned toward them.  The three elves 
were almost the last to leave.
 
Still within the hall, Haldir had not moved from the center of the floor, 
though Iarwen had withdrawn into the shadows.  Galadriel and Celeborn 
had not moved from their thrones, and she turned to see her husband still 
staring at The Dancer, who remained hidden in his cape.  Finally, he too 
removed himself from the hall to join Iarwen in the darkness.  Galadriel 
turned to face the Lord Celeborn.
 
“You want him.”
 
Shocked out of his reverie, Celeborn faced his wife, guilt underlying the 
lustful need expressed in his grey eyes.  “I cannot deny it.”
 
Galadriel smiled with some small pity, both for her Lord and for herself.  
“Then have him, if he desires it.”
 
Celeborn looked shocked for only a moment, but a sudden unaccustomed 
fear crept over his features.  “I do not wish to dishonor you.  The Dance is 
not to be taken lightly…”
 
“Neither are your feelings,” she said.
 
“He is…” Celeborn licked his lips nervously and looked away.  “I could 
not ask him…”
 
Galadriel’s face alighted with amusement.  She stood from the carved 
white chair to stride forward, beckoning to The Dancer’s Attendant.  
Smiling to herself at Celeborn’s sudden shyness, she waited for Iarwen to 
approach.
 
“My Lady?”
 
“Iarwen, the Lord Celeborn should like to celebrate Byeltinyeh with The 
Dancer, if he is amenable.”
 
Iarwen merely bowed.  “I shall ask him.”
 
Haldir watched curiously as Iarwen returned to his side.  She said no 
words, merely looking back the way she had come.  Haldir followed her 
gaze to see Galadriel smiling sadly at him, and further on…
 
A shudder ran through him at the sight of Lord Celeborn in his chair, 
staring with open desire at him.  At him!
 
Galadriel saw neither words nor gestures pass between the two, but Iarwen 
returned, saying, “He is… amenable.”
 
Haldir watched in a disbelieving stupor as the old elves whispered to each 
other in the center of the dance floor.
 
When Iarwen came to him again, she whispered.  “Go up to his chamber.  
His Lord would like… an encore.”
 
Haldir’s wrath was not visible beyond his lowered hood.  “What?!  But 
I…”
 
Iarwen dropped the air of matchmaker and Haldir suddenly saw the eternal 
despair in those ancient green eyes.  She said, “Most often, it is the actions 
we do not take which we regret.”  But then, that everlasting good humor 
returned and she reassured him, “I think your innocence has been 
maintained long enough - too long, if I may say so.  And you have nothing 
to worry about: it is said that Dancers make the best lovers, experienced or 
nay.”  She winked.  “Knowledge matters not.  It’s in your blood.”
 
Haldir knew it was meant to be comforting but his nerves still jangled.  
Before he could respond, Galadriel approached their corner of darkness.  
“You’ve no reason to deny yourself, Haldir of the March.”
 
He was not surprised at her recognition, but Haldir’s head jerked up at her 
words, hearing what was not said.  It was permission.  It was a gift; it was 
a sacrifice.
 
So, he could only bow before her and turn to stride out of the light, 
making his way to the long white ladders and stairs of the palace.
 
Celeborn watched all this with detachment, uncertain of what was passing 
between the three distant figures.  When Galadriel returned to his side, she 
kneeled before him, those wise eyes peering knowingly into his own.  “He 
awaits.”
 
Galadriel turned and walked away, stopping again at Iarwen’s side.  The 
old crone tilted her head in speculation.  “This changes everything,” she 
advised the Lady.
 
Galadriel looked back to Celeborn, still sitting, shocked, firmly in his seat.  
“I will not begrudge them their happiness.”  
 
When Galadriel turned again, Celeborn could not see his wife’s face, but 
as they spoke one last time, he saw the old crone’s expression of shock 
before the two elf-women walked together into the night.
 
 
 
= = = = =
 
Chapter 8: The Encore
 
Haldir fled swiftly.  He took no heed to his surroundings until he was 
within his Lord’s chambers, when he lifted his hood and looked about.  
Low railings twined like ivy vines in white carvings up similarly engraved 
pillars to the canopied white roof.  White wooden planks were cool and 
smooth beneath bare feet, and the signs of his Lord lay about in the stacks 
of tattered books, scattered paperwork, and half-melted candles, which 
Haldir quickly lit.
 
He carefully hung up his cloak as he wandered about the huge talan that 
circled the trunk of a massive mallorn.  Coming round the other side, he 
halted at the sight of the bed.  A great white monstrosity was built into the 
talan, its posters climbing up and into the ceiling where milky transparent 
silk bed curtains fell around the four sides.  Downy white pillows accented 
the white quilted bedspread.
 
Reaching within himself, Haldir found again that ancient melody and he 
sang it aloud in a hypnotic trembling whisper.  He let it overwhelm him as 
he never had before and used this fevered desire to drown out the hurt of 
unreturned devotion, for this union would be heartfelt, but full of lust 
rather than love, in a blind encounter on the night of Byeltinyeh.
 
Letting go the pain, Haldir stalked toward the bed.
 
***
 
Celeborn never could recall how he’d managed to make the journey to his 
rooms.  But then, he stood before his door, palms sweating.  He was 
actually shivering with arousal, and attempted to calm himself with a few 
deep breaths.  This only succeeded in making him light-headed.  So before 
he could turn tail in apprehension or faint from the overwhelming tension, 
he reached out and pushed open the door.  
 
Nervous steps carried him over the threshold and around the splendid talan 
where his bed lay on the western side.
 
His breathing ceased.
 
Through the shimmering ivory curtains wavering in the high breeze, The 
Dancer lay stretched out with catlike pride on his bed, great violet eyes 
peering up, the smallest of seductive smirks just visible beyond the pale 
violet veil.  One hand pillowed the silver-golden head in self-assured 
comfort, the other casually twisting at that intriguing ring of gold through 
a coral colored nipple.  Long silk-draped legs lay the length of his great 
bed, the further knee bent into the air in lazy invitation.
 
When Celeborn did not approach - having temporarily lost his mind in the 
aching fog of lust - that lithe being flowed forward onto his naked feet, 
bells tinkling rhythmically in a taunting echo of The Dance as he sashayed 
across the wooden floor in a slow seduction of wanton limbs and 
undulating hips, the jewels at his waist sparkling in the night’s faint light.
 
That Song singing in his veins raced through Celeborn’s body and gained 
power with every sinuous step The Dancer took until the elf stood before 
him, the barest slip of air between them and that unwavering smirk still in 
place.
 
Then, the Lord watched as the smirk transformed into a sultry smile.  A 
many-jeweled hand rose, ghosting along his tall robed body to lay the soft 
pads of warm fingers on his heated face in a first touch of cautious 
affection.  Painted eyes closed, hiding their dark depths, and the stranger 
guided himself forward.
 
Celeborn felt the caress of fine silk against his nose, his cheek, his parted 
lips, before the press of a heated mouth met his, the thin material of the 
veil a tantalizing barrier between them.
 
Celeborn’s eyes flashed shut and he leaned into the kiss, arms still at his 
sides, fearful that his touch would turn to blind abandoned need and he 
would effortlessly crush this exotic, fragile-seeming creature beneath him.
 
At this passionate - if carefully controlled - reaction, The Dancer backed 
away, staring up at the tall Lord from beneath half-lidded eyes, an 
achingly familiar smirk on a face Celeborn thought he should somehow 
know…
 
Seeing how the kiss had sent the Lord to harsher breathing, The Dancer 
laughed, a low melodious sound that was neither mocking nor derogatory, 
but only a satisfied chuckle.  He stepped back again, swaying to the tune 
of the bells as arms were raised above his head and fluttered like wings in 
a twisting ballet before they flickered downward in some alluring 
choreography that heightened the yearning between them.
 
Celeborn’s eyes did not leave the tantalizing play of those golden hands as 
they slowly lowered, caressing the hairless chest in a show of wanton 
disregard, across a taut stomach and lower, to the silver ties about his 
waist.
 
A quick series of tugs had the garment undone and flung to the floor with 
a clatter of brass bells, forgotten.
 
Those long legs continued The Dance as the elf moved to push aside the 
bed curtains and seat himself on the mattress.  For the moment, he feigned 
to ignore his audience of one as each foot was lifted and released from its 
leather and bell ornament.  These were carelessly flung into a corner and 
The Dancer stood again.  He ducked his head, scented hair flowing over 
broad (for an elf) shoulders and he made as if to remove that satin cloth 
over his loins, but then ceased, looking up with a playful expression.  
Painted eyes called and a single curving finger beckoned.
 
Celeborn could not resist the invitation and he moved smoothly forward.  
The Dancer reached out agile hands, deftly removing the red festival robes 
and golden tunic.  The Lord was quickly freed of every garment and he 
stood unashamedly nude, his leaking arousal curving upward in ready 
hardness.
 
The Dancer’s hands, slightly callused, rested on the elf’s shoulders, 
caressing an intimate massage down strong arms until the Lord’s hands 
were guided forward to be set on a slender waist.
 
Celeborn wrapped his fingers around the satin knots… and pulled.  A loud 
rip broke the silence and the ruined raiment was dropped.  The Dancer 
stood in perfect exposure before the bed, half-hard and grinning with an 
almost nervous promise as he waited.
 
Celeborn’s eyes seemed to devour the golden form revealed before him: 
slender feet, strong legs, long organ hot and heavy, firm muscles up a 
toned chest and arms, and the beautiful face hiding its identity just out of 
reach behind a veil and some color.
 
Hesitantly the Lord’s hands returned to The Dancer’s body in an 
exploration that grew steadily more demanding.  The stunning creature 
melted into the intimate touch, swaying and panting with his own desire as 
curious hands wound possessively through long loose hair.  Celeborn 
leaned in, pressing their bodies flush together, burying his face in the 
magic-scented locks, licking the point of a tempting ear, as his hands came 
up to the back of a heated neck.
 
The Dancer jerked out of the embrace that searched for the ties to his veil.  
He pouted, wagging a disapproving finger at the Lord before pulling him 
into another silk-barred kiss.
 
***
 
Lost in the passion growing between them, Haldir had frozen when he 
realized the intent of those inquiring hands, and he’d pulled away in fear.  
The Lord still didn’t know who he was, and if Haldir had his wish, 
Celeborn never would.  This one night would be enough to furnish his 
fantasies for an age, and Celeborn need never know the Mystery of The 
Dancer, and after this forgotten encounter, they could remain… friends.
 
The kiss grew hard and wet, turning the silk rough and scratchy between 
their tongues, but neither seemed to particularly mind as hard bodies 
wound together, hands seeking tingling flesh.
 
When Celeborn reached once more for the veil in slow, obvious gestures, 
The Dancer again pulled away.  “Why do you hide from me?” the Lord 
asked, his thickened voice low and deep with arousal.
 
Haldir leaned forward, a gentle leer on his face as he brushed his veiled 
lips over the Lord’s ear, whispering, “The Art of The Dance demands 
Mystery.”
 
Shuddering at the sensation of wispy fabric brushing the delicate skin of 
his ear, Celeborn wondered at that voice, a purring promise of deep tones 
and light laughter.  It struck a chord within him, this well-known cadence 
to the speech that he simply could not place.
 
Before further inquiries could be made, a suggestion of a touch whispered 
down his back, encouraging a low moan.  When Haldir pulled away, 
Celeborn followed the singing hands that led him to the bed, beyond the 
shimmering curtains, to lie back on the deep mattress, gazing up at the 
sensual being hovering above him though barely touching.
 
Celeborn’s strong hand ventured forth to gently caress a rouged cheek, 
curl around a perfect elven ear, brush through that exotically scented hair 
of molten silver-gold.  “Such a beautiful creature should not hide,” he 
murmured with a worshipful sigh.  Celeborn could see the blush, even 
through the gilt skin, and he leaned up to kiss the jeweled brow just 
beneath the diamond hanging from the mithril circlet.
 
At this reverent treatment, Haldir blushed deeper, but matched the actions 
with kisses of his own to a cheek, a jaw, a shoulder.  The veil was pulled 
up as it trailed over sensitized skin, revealing naked lips to trace a damp 
path over the straining body.
 
Mouth, hands, heated skin teased the Lord unmercifully, and Celeborn 
could not control the needing sounds that were coaxed forth: whimpers 
and moans, mewls and cries.  Skillful lips closed over a peaking bud of 
flesh on his chest as fingers danced along his sides, alternately ghost-light 
and fiercely clutching.
 
Strong hands wound into the hair that dragged sensuously along the 
Lord’s sides as Haldir continued his southward journey, worshiping the 
body beneath him with the devotion of a reverent lover or well-paid harlot.  
Overwhelmed at his own passion, The Dancer didn’t spare a moment’s 
hesitation before sliding hot lips and an equally searing mouth over 
Celeborn’s straining need.
 
Passionate cries sounded through the late evening as Celeborn arched into 
the sucking warmth, so hot and wet and – oh, just perfect around him, 
unthinkingly guiding The Dancer’s head with a tangled grip in that 
scented hair.
 
Haldir spared only fleeting thanks for the abilities inherent in his blood as 
he tended without difficulty to his Lord, the increasing moans of 
encouragement spurring on his own lust, reveling at the fullness in his 
mouth, the grip on his hair, and the heaving body beneath him.
 
These eager ministrations escalated as Haldir drew him deep, and began to 
hum.  The Song itself vibrated along Celeborn’s entire shaft and drew 
forth an intense, almost pained release with fervent thrusts and desperate 
cries.
 
Celeborn lay panting a moment before he drew Haldir up by his hair for 
another kiss, hot and almost loving, angry at the silk between them and 
thankful for everything else.  Despite his climax, The Dance still surged 
within him, and he hadn’t softened in the slightest.  If anything, the 
powerful arousal had increased and his need become a dominating force, 
driving him to take this sylvan creature.  He looked up into hungry, violet 
eyes.  “I can, at this moment, imagine no greater pleasure than to take you, 
force you and fuck you, love you and be one with you,” he growled, fierce 
and barely coherent.
 
Haldir moaned, a sound of passion, of submission, and of need, as 
Celeborn rolled them over, parting those strong legs to lie between them 
and thrust together with the beautiful Dancer.
 
When Celeborn parted those legs even further and began probing at the 
virgin entrance, Haldir thrust back on his hand in a fury of want, humming 
that melody, increasing the friction, the pressure, the lust between them.  
The Song relaxed him even as it poured through him in rippling waves of 
desire.  “Oh yes, take me!” he moaned; it was almost a scream.
 
So he did.  With intimate abandon and careless want, Celeborn thrust hard 
into the quivering body, finding the perfect sheath for his lust, and for his 
love – if only his bodily desire had not blinded his heart.
 
The pain and the pleasure and the love were one, and Haldir howled them 
out in a primal wail as he wrapped long legs about his Lord and clung 
desperately to strong shoulders – wider even than his own – tossing his 
head and biting red-painted lips and weeping with the overpowering 
rightness of it all.
 
Their coupling was an animalistic frenzy of claiming hands and scratching 
nails, biting nips and scraping teeth, pounding bodies and everything that 
was primitive and demanding and coarse and fierce.
 
Lost to the most vicious call of The Dance, they moved madly to its 
rhythm, marking and tearing and claiming.
 
The bed shook beneath them, the curtains shivered around them, and their 
cries mercilessly pierced the air to echo through the city of trees.
 
***
 
Perilous, they had been told.  Dangerous, she had said.  They should have 
listened.
 
Now, all was lost to the fury of The Dance, an unspoken truth twisting 
even tighter as their passions were finally spent in a shared moment of 
ripping ecstasy, woven through with sweat and shouts and strained 
obscenities as their bodies quaked and their minds rattled and it seemed 
the world crashed down around them.
 
***
 
Celeborn lay, heavy and spent, crushing his worn lover.
 
Now, their touches were gentle, a soothing balm to skin bitten and bruised.  
Beyond words, a lingering kiss was all they exchanged, amid those tender 
caresses, loving and relentless.
 
Yet even as they lay quiet and content, satiation gave way to a burgeoning 
arousal.  Unlike the blaze that had burned them in its fury, this subtle fire 
was slow to heat, slow to stir.  The touches were no less gentle in their 
accelerating firmness and the kisses, too, were sweet beyond measure.
 
Still lost to the magic of The Dance, still connected in body and in spirit, 
they could not stop the inevitable rhythm that began to grow.  Not that 
they wanted to.  Oh no, this act of lovemaking was as sweet and calm as 
the previous had been hard and rough.  And this they certainly wanted, 
this ache that was unhurried and easy to build.  It was desired, as sought 
after as had been that first furious fucking only moments before, and no 
less perfect.
 
Gradual was the continuing elevation, and the world spun away to nothing 
as their eyes met, violet and silver, never wavering as they moved 
together, finding peace, finding perfect harmony.  Finding love.
 
This time, the release was celebrated in drawn-out whimpers that could 
never have been mistaken for anything but pleasure as their tear-filled 
eyes held the connection, heightening the passion, showing to each other 
the pure joy that was there.
 
***
 
After a time, they slipped from their connection, sore and aching and still 
desperate with need.
 
The Dance was alive within the lovers, revitalizing them, commanding 
and teaching; it worked its magic far too well.
 
Pressed tight together, they spoke in kisses, they sang with hands, they 
loved without words.
 
And finding yet another fire kindle between them, another melody 
swallow their souls, Haldir turned his Lord to his stomach, easing his 
passage with their spent emissions and taking what they both wanted.  
 
Celeborn surrendered with unmitigated grace and passion as Haldir moved 
within him, a steadily growing tempo guided by lust and love and all those 
other mysteries that remain a part of every heart, mortal and immortal 
alike.
 
Again, Haldir’s veil fell before him, allowing those soft lips to caress the 
deep red lines he’d inflicted across his lover’s muscled back.  One hand 
steadying a hip, the other circled round to tend to Celeborn’s need.
 
The lovers found their passions again with more sweet cries and clinging 
embraces.
 
***
 
And it was not the last.
 
For all the hours left to the midsummer night, they followed the Song of 
The Dance where it led them, to passion and pleasure and something so 
much deeper, something so much stronger, something…
 
Laying entwined together, Celeborn reached round again, silently asking 
the removal of the veil; however, The Dancer was adamant.  But then, 
Celeborn closed his eyes, and he leaned in, lifting the silk as he did so, 
finally meeting those lips with his own.
 
Exquisite.  Passionate.  Delicate.  It was all of these and more.  The 
Dancer met him move for move as the exploration continued, the Lord’s 
eyes dutifully closed throughout this final connection.
 
Eventually, Celeborn withdrew, replacing the veil as he did so, and 
opening his eyes once more to see well-known violet brilliance staring 
back at him with hope and love and happiness.  
 
So, allowing the Mystery to continue, Celeborn lay on his back, finally 
giving heed to the exhaustion that lay on the other side of any potent 
magic.  It seemed the powerful Song of The Dance finally slipped away, 
chased into nothingness with the coming of the sun.
 
The silver morning greeted the sylvan elves, but they did not see it, as they 
slumbered peacefully and contentedly in a cherishing embrace.
 
***
 
It was still morning when Haldir awoke, nearly shocked at the vibrant 
ache throughout his entire body.  His muscles rebelled as he attempted to 
command them, but he forced himself to move.  
 
Thoughts whirled in his mind: fears, questions, confusion.  He fought 
them all, choosing action above thought.  With great effort, he extricated 
himself from the knot of limbs, marveling at all that glorious skin flush 
with his own.  He mourned the loss as he withdrew from the bed, 
searching out the remains of his costume and wrapping it into a tight 
bundle beneath his arm.
 
He should have left, then and there.  He should have disappeared through 
the door, the grey cloak swirling at his ankles.   
 
But the bed called to him; at least, the elf within it did.  Haldir padded 
over the smooth floor to stand beside this one-time lover, this one love.  
Not knowing what mad impulse drove him, he reached beneath his own 
flaxen tangles to remove the cursed veil, stained faintly with their passions 
and the red from his lips.  He reached past the curtains to let the scrap of 
fabric fall to the empty pillow, where the impression of his head still lay.  
 
And then, he bowed over the sleeping figure, grazing a ghost of a kiss 
across his Lord’s smooth brow.  Words soft with devotion and solemn 
sadness were whispered to the slumbering Lord.  “I love you, Celeborn.”
 
With that, he fled from the room, drawing the cloak tight and the hood 
low, racing along the forest floor, undisturbed at the seemingly misplaced 
silence inherent in a city on the morning after a feast day.
 
***
 
Within the safety of his solitary flet, his clothes were tossed to an unused 
corner.  He stripped himself of the armbands, jewels, wrist cuffs, and 
earrings, stowing them away in a box beneath his simple bed.  Into this he 
also placed the mithril circlet and the rings.  He rubbed absently at the 
piercing of his ears, which would close within a day thanks to elven 
healing.
 
A supply of fresh water and soap stood in one corner where he had readied 
them the day before.  These he used to meticulously cleanse himself of 
inks and powders and perfumes, scrubbing with ruthless and increasing 
anger until his hair was a tangled mass and his skin was rubbed red.
 
At last, when he felt almost fresh and clean, he fell into bed, exhausted, 
uncaring of the few tears that escaped haunted eyes.
 
 
 
= = = = =
 
Chapter 9: The Second Summons (and A “Brotherly” Interlude)
 
Haldir kept a watchful eye on all the ground below, and also among the 
trees.  There was no movement though, not on this border, not in this era 
of peace, certainly not in this heated summer haze.  There were no 
enemies, there was no threat, and the heat was enough to tempt even the 
most industrious elf into a noontime slumber.
 
Haldir’s glance moved to his feet, where sprawled a drowsing sentry, 
whose eyes were glazed with the nearness of sleep.  A swift kick to the 
side roused him.  “Mind your duty, Orophin,” Haldir rebuked in a whisper, 
watching as his brother sat up and scooted over to sit on the edge of the 
talan, his shoeless feet dangling off the side.
 
When Orophin finally spoke, it was in complaint.  “Rumil has been 
overlong in his break.  What keeps him?”
 
“We shan’t know till he arrives,” Haldir said softly, resuming his watch 
duty.  He could see… there, Rumil moving slowly between the tree trunks 
from the direction of the stream, his stealthy movements betrayed by the 
sun glinting off silver hair.  The young elf wore only his thin trousers, with 
his uniform and quiver slung idly over a shoulder.
 
Many minutes later, the youngest had joined his brothers, flinging his 
things onto the flet before climbing up after.  He moved to sit beside 
Orophin in similar fashion saying, “It’s hot!”
 
“That does not excuse your tardiness,” Haldir pointed out.  “And if you 
are wise, it will not happen again, understood?”
 
Rumil pouted, but sternly replied, “Yes, Captain.”  And then, under his 
breath, “It’s hot…”
 
Haldir silently agreed.  Scorching.  Sizzling.  Stifling.  Hot.  It was hot.  
Rumil looked most comfortable in his attire.  Orophin, too, had shrugged 
off cape and tunic and shoes, looking – if not cool – at least contented, in 
shirt and breeches, with long golden hair tied back in a leather thong.  
Haldir was the only one of them still in full uniform, still standing, still 
keeping watch over a forest that was motionless, and in which all the 
green things drooped in sad lethargy for lack of water and too much sun.  
Not the barest breeze disturbed them, even fifty feet off the ground.  There 
was no relief from the heat, but Haldir did not show this.  His hair and 
clothes were in perfect alignment; he neither complained nor showed any 
sign of annoyance.  He kept to his duty, and that was that.
 
The three elves had not sat long when Rumil suddenly jumped to his feet, 
squinting through the trees.  “Someone approaches from the city!”
 
“Indeed,” Haldir replied, having long heard their approach.  “Tis a 
messenger.”
 
“Messenger?” Orophin replied.  “Isn’t that Cudae?”
 
Haldir glanced southward.  Sure enough, the son of the elf lord came 
loping through the silver barked trunks.  “Aye,” Haldir said.  “Have you 
not heard?  Cudae has given up his position as March Warden of the 
South.  He and Annaglar have chosen to bind themselves.  Life would be 
difficult with one ever at the South and the other on the East border.  
Cudae will transfer to the Eastern March and will serve as first lieutenant 
to Annaglar.  Until the transfer order goes through, he has been errand-
runner for the Lord and Lady.”
 
Catching the glint in Orophin’s eye, Haldir warned, “Do not ridicule him.  
The wheel of Fate bears a double-edged sword.  For an elf of his standing, 
it is much to give up in the name of love.”  And without his family’s 
blessing, he silently added.
 
By this point, Cudae and Rumil had greeted one another with silent 
gestures, signals used only among the Galadrim.  The messenger’s light 
voice carried up through the trees.  “Sons of Feagul.  I’ve a message from 
the Lord Celeborn for Haldir, captain of the Northmarch.”
 
“Join us and rest from your journey,” Haldir spoke softly, his low purr 
carrying down to the sensitive elven ears below.
 
Swiftly did Cudae ascend the rope ladder, gratefully accepting Rumil’s 
flask.  He drank and then removed a bound scroll from his belt and handed 
it to Haldir.  “I thank you for this respite, but I dare not tarry in my duty.  I 
was imbued with the distinct impression that this was most urgent,” spoke 
the habitually subdued elf, with more humor and lightness in his tone and 
eyes than Haldir could ever recall witnessing.
 
Haldir thanked him softly and unrolled the scroll only to find another 
sealed one within it.  Violet eyes skimmed the opened parchment and a 
blank look settled on his regal features.  “Yes, thank you…” he replied 
absently.  “Indeed, I must go at once.”
 
Rumil was about to interrogate him, but Orophin prevented him from 
questioning his captain in the presence of another with a firm hand on his 
arm.  “Cudae,” Haldir spoke formally as he gathered his things, “take your 
leisure before you return to Caras Galadon.  Sentries, mind your duty, and 
obey Thinthoron; I know not when I shall return.”  Rumil and his brother 
could only watch as Haldir gracefully descended the tree to land without a 
sound on the dry grass and speed into the distance like the echo of a 
whispering wind.
 
“Why would he go west?” Rumil asked, his bright eyes watching his 
eldest brother’s progress.
 
Orophin shrugged, also observing Haldir with concern.  “I don’t know.”
 
***
 
Once out of sight of the northern line of border guards, Haldir slowed to a 
walk and once again opened the message from his Lord.  This time, he 
read it more thoroughly.
 
‘Haldir, Son of Feagul, Guardian of Lorien, Captain of the Northern 
March, and Dear Friend,
 
    I do not intend insult to your status, but I find once again that I must 
turn to you for subtle acts and trusted secrecy.  
    First, I bid you leave at once to deliver this second sealed message to 
Iarwen, Attendant to The Dancer.  In truth, I could find no other elf brave 
enough to approach her, but I have faith in you, Haldir.  
    Second, I ask that you await her response and deliver it to me without 
delay.
    We shall speak upon your arrival at Caras Galadon.
 
                    Regards,
                    Celeborn’
 
Haldir shuddered.  Iarwen, ‘Attendant to The Dancer,’ he had specified.  
What was happening now?  Haldir did not think he could go through that 
again…  He did not think he had yet recovered from the first.
 
In truth, it was not The Dance that so affected him, but the events that had 
come after.  It had been almost a year now, and he was still haunted with 
equal amounts of guilt for deceiving his Lord and regret for denying his 
Love.
 
Now, with only two weeks until Byeltinyeh, Haldir could only hope he 
had the strength to refuse whatever the Lord had planned for The Dancer, 
lest his heart be truly broke in twain.
 
***
 
“This heat is practically unbearable,” Cudae observed, removing his 
messenger’s sash and standing to stretch his legs.  He looked down at the 
two sentries, near sweating on their lonely perch.  “Tell you what,” Cudae 
offered with a sympathetic smile.  “You two run along.  Take a two hours’ 
break and I shall watch your post.” 
 

Orophin and Rumil exchanged a look of surprised delight.  They stood 
together, turning to their visitor.  “We would be most thankful,” Orophin 
agreed with a slight bow.  “For we have been on watch these many months 
without a break together.” 
 
“Haldir seems to think we would get into trouble,” Rumil added helpfully.
 
Orophin nudged his brother as if to say ‘shut up, you!’  He gave a false, 
tittering laugh.  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he scolded.  Turning again to 
Cudae, he offered, “And in return for this favor, you may help yourself to 
any of our stock that is appealing.”  Orophin nimbly leapt up to grab hold 
of a branch, and reached into a high, hidden cranny to remove a basket.
 
“September wine from the vineyards,” Rumil said as Orophin handed the 
basket down before dropping lightly to his feet.  “Sweetmeats and apples 
from the northern orchard.”
 
“A rare feast!” Cudae approved enthusiastically, accepting the woven 
basket from Rumil.  “I think your favor now better than mine and find my 
offer lacking.  Make your rest double and we shall consider ourselves 
fair.”
 
“There is no need to keep you,” Orophin bargained.  “No doubt you wish 
to be off home soon enough.  But call the count three hours and we shall 
be even.”
 
“Agreed,” Cudae said with a smile, taking Haldir’s former stance as he bit 
into an apple.
 
Only Orophin brought his bow and quiver, leaving Rumil’s set for the 
temporary guard, a messenger who had come armed only with knives.
 
They wasted no time in their flight from the mallorn to race along the 
worn path to the stream but a half-mile away.
 
***
 
Tunics and trousers went flying as the brothers reached the small glade 
where a large pool had formed from a natural dam in the water’s path.  
Orophin pulled off the tie that held his hair and dived headlong into the 
cool depths like a sleek, flashing fish while Rumil ran in with a grand leap 
and equally grand splash, as he had since childhood.  Elvish laughter, like 
silver bells, rung out high and happy in the green glade where the plants 
thrived on the stream’s water and the elves standing in the sun-dappled 
shallows soon took to splashing great waves at one another with vigorous 
delight.  Traditions must be maintained, after all.
 
One particularly overzealous spray caught Orophin in the face, and he 
gagged with surprise at the nose-full of water, turning on Rumil with a 
vengeful, sinister light in his grey eyes.  “Oh, you shall pay dearly for that, 
little brother.”
 
Rumil’s own eyes, dark and blue, widened with fearful excitement as 
Orophin advanced.
 
The larger elf lunged, and though Rumil dodged, the water slowed him, 
conspiring to allow Orophin’s strong arms to catch him about the waist, 
bringing both down with a mighty splash beneath the surface.  
 
Suddenly - as though a resonating drum had been abruptly hushed - their 
world was plunged into silence with the weight of the water on their ears, 
though the sunlight streamed through the boughs above to brightly 
illuminate the water in streaks of golden green and pure blue as elven hair 
flashed silver and gold like darting fish within the depths as the submerged 
elves dashed and weaved.  The struggle continued in a muted display of 
elven agility within the underwater world as Orophin’s strength was pitted 
against Rumil’s dexterity, both hindered by the heavy water.  The younger 
elf struggled valiantly in the clear depths, as his slick and squirming form 
almost evaded the eagerly searching hands.
 
Alas, he could not meet Orophin’s more experienced play, and so 
remained submerged when, in the end, his brother wrapped an unforgiving 
hand in his long silver hair to keep him below.
 
Air spent in exercise was soon depleted, and when Rumil’s struggles 
weakened, Orophin pulled the sputtering elf up, holding his head just 
above the surface as he stood victoriously with Rumil in his grasp.  “Do 
you submit?”
 
“Never!” came Rumil’s playful cry, and he was again ducked beneath the 
waters.
 
Having gained a fresh breath of air, Rumil drew his strength together, 
releasing his double-fisted grip on Orophin’s wrist to reach for the nearest 
leg.  Without hesitation, he pulled himself forward and sunk his teeth into 
his brother’s thigh.
 
Still beneath the water, he only heard a muffled version of the shrill, angry 
scream that rang out in the open air, but he felt the hand release its 
relentless clutch and Rumil quickly pushed off the stony bottom to breach 
the surface, gain a breath, and dive again, swiftly swimming round to take 
hold of Orophin’s shoulders and shove him beneath before protest could 
be uttered.
 
Knowing he had not the strength to keep Orophin there, Rumil again 
darted away out of reach, barely evading his brother’s searching grip.  
“You devil!” the elder of them cried through a mouthful of water when he 
emerged, throwing droplets off his head and shoulders like an angry bull 
as he glared spitefully at a chuckling Rumil.  “You bit me!” he accused 
with shock, as though he scarcely believed it himself even as a slight 
trickle of blood polluted the water near his pelvis.
 
“You gave me little choice,” Rumil rejoined, dancing back and forth 
where he stood in the water, ready to leap away at the first sign of attack.  
“I should rather bite my brother than asphyxiate at his hands!”
 
Orophin let out a gruff noise that sounded suspiciously like a growl before 
charging forward, his clawed hands outstretched, aiming for his brother’s 
neck.
 
Rumil let out a surprised squeal before sinking below the surface and 
pushing himself through the water.
 
Standing still in silent displeasure, Orophin with arms akimbo watched 
Rumil tire himself in the pool, long pale limbs cutting through the water 
with silver hair flowing like a train of mithril-hued seaweed behind him.  
 
One daring turn, however, brought Rumil his doom.  As he flashed past, 
Orophin’s hand shot into the water like a loosed arrow, clutching his 
brother’s neck.  He promptly threw his other arm about the elf’s waist and 
maneuvered him right up into the air to be carried, howling and cursing, 
up to the shore where he was thrown unceremoniously to the bank with an 
undignified thud.  
 
“Ow!” came the loud complaint.  “What did you do that for?!”
 
Orophin crossed his pale, muscled arms and glared threateningly down at 
his brother.  
 
Rumil met this expression with a cheeky grin.  “Your glare is not half so 
frightening as Haldir’s, so don’t bother.”
 
A low, rumbling growl sounded before Orophin launched himself at his 
brother.
 
Rumil responded with another shriek before the two elves were tussling on 
the grassy shore, more often rolling about than attempting any sort of 
offense, though a few bruises and scratches were inflicted before Orophin 
pinned his slighter brother to the ground.  “Do you submit?”
 
Not the slightest hesitation proceeded Rumil’s enthusiastic, “Never!!!”  A 
cruel pinch to Orophin’s hip allowed enough distraction to reverse their 
positions and they once more struggled to subdue the other, rolling nearer 
and nearer to the water’s brink.
 
Orophin managed to land Rumil in the shallow edge of the pool with a 
generous splash.  Rumil’s immediate response was to reach for his 
brother’s nose, twisting harshly.  
 
“Argch!” Orophin half choked, half screamed as he jumped away.  “You 
fight like a girl!”
 
Rumil giggled, crab-walking back up the bank and out of Orophin’s reach.
 
“That hurt, you little monster!” the elder accused as he once more prowled 
up the bank.
 
Rumil had not fled, and he lay, panting, near the shore, allowing Orophin 
to approach and tower over him.  “Revenge is mine,” Orophin declared.  
Without warning, he leapt onto Rumil, straddling his thighs to effectively 
keep him in place as he reached for the sensitive skin either side of his 
stomach.
 
Rumil’s blue eyes widened with adrenaline and fear.  “No!!” he cried.  
“No, don’t!”
 
A wicked grin met these pleas, and Orophin at once set to tickling his 
brother mercilessly.
 
Uncontrolled laughter burst forth in a song of panting titters and raucous 
guffaws as Rumil squirmed uselessly beneath this loving assault, trying to 
push away the unforgiving fingers as tears of mirth trickled from those 
dark blue eyes.  “Stop Orophin!  Ai, stop I say!”
 
Orophin laughed at the weak commands, redoubling his attack.  Rumil’s 
shrieks increased as his defense weakened. 
 
“Ha ha!” Orophin crowed.  “Do you submit?”
 
Rumil struggled in vain and did not answer.
 
Orophin sped his teasing fingers, leaning over his brother and demanding, 
“Do you submit?”
 
Rumil growled, but then shouted, “Ai!  Ach!  Yes!  YES!  I submit!”
 
Orophin grinned in triumph before collapsing to the ground beside his 
brother, their long legs entangled as they lay panting in the shade on the 
stream’s grassy bank.
 
Finally, it was Orophin who broke the silence.  “Ah, I have missed our 
play, brother.”
 
Rumil sighed in agreement, but then answered in a serious tone.  “Aye, but 
our duty now lies with the March.  We have little need for such romps.”
 
Orophin turned, his golden hair falling over his eyes.  He tossed his head 
to clear his vision, meeting Rumil’s wide blue gaze.  “When did my little 
brother grow up?” he asked in a low tone, half to himself.
 
Rumil nearly blushed at the abrupt intensity of Orophin’s scrutiny and the 
sudden sobriety of his words, but he met the gaze unflinchingly.  “I 
couldn’t say,” Rumil offered, “But I do believe it may have been the 
moments after The Dance at last year’s Byeltinyeh Feast.”
 
Grey eyes regarded the younger with delighted surprise before Orophin 
burst out in laughter rich and deep, soon met by Rumil’s own giggles.
 
“You harlot!” the elder teased, reaching over to ruffle Rumil’s silver-white 
hair, mussing the damp tresses into a tangled mess.
 
Rumil mock-pouted at his brother’s gestures and words, pulling himself to 
a sitting position away from Orophin’s teasing fingers to rake his own 
hands through his wet mane, straightening the worst of the snarls and 
snares.  “Ai!  Orophin!” he shrieked, looking down at where their long 
legs lay entwined on the deep green grass.  “You are bleeding!”
 
The golden-haired brother looked down at the perfect set of red teeth 
marks in his thigh.  “Well, yes,” he agreed.
 
Rumil grumbled to himself as he untangled their legs, rising to waltz to the 
shoreline where he weeded through the plants until he came up with a 
handful of thick yellow grasses.
 
Orophin lay sprawled on the green sward, watching with bemusement as 
Rumil marched huffily back to kneel beside him.  “Hold still,” the younger 
ordered with uncharacteristic gloom.  He splashed a handful of water on 
the wound and used a torn scrap from his tunic to carefully dry it.
 
“Why so sour?” the elder curiously asked.
 
Rumil glanced up quickly.  “I am sorry.  It was not my intent to hurt you.”
 
“So you are sorry, and I am fine.  There’s no need to mope.”
 
Rumil made no answer as he squeezed out the sticky fluid from the water 
grass onto the still-bleeding bite.  
 
Orophin smiled as he spoke.  “Do you remember when you and I used to 
wrestle each other in the bramble grove, and we’d come crying to Haldir 
covered in scratches?”
 
A thin smile escaped Rumil’s mouth.  “Aye,” he spoke grudgingly.  “And 
he would set us down and clean us up, and tell us how mother used to do 
the same for him.”
 
“And when we were all cleaned up, covered in this awful, sticky goop, we 
would complain that it still itched.”
 
“So, he would ask us where, and then kiss our knees and elbows and noses 
until we were convinced his kisses had healed all the hurt…” Rumil 
reminisced, a distant smile recalling those long gone days.
 
Orophin nodded agreement, lost in memories of childhood.  “Mmm,” he 
mused, unconsciously wiggling his leg as he laughed in a low rumble, “it 
DOES itch…”
 
Rumil’s smile sweetened as he commiserated with his elder brother, but 
then his open gaze met his brother’s…
 
…and everything changed.
 
Blue eyes flashed wickedly and his grin became something far from sweet 
as his crouch turned predatory and he loomed closer over a confused 
Orophin.
 
“Rumil, what are you—?”
 
The silver-haired siren stooped low, his dark eyes a’gleaming with untold 
promises as his pink, bowed mouth parted in a puckered smile.  His voice, 
when it came, was barely a whisper that skittered across the sensitive skin 
of Orophin’s hip.  “I’ll take the hurt away, Oro,” was the promise 
murmured roughly against that golden pale skin before pouting lips were 
pressed lovingly against the marred flesh.
 
Sparkling blue eyes never turned from Orophin, whose own grey eyes had 
widened to comical proportions.  His chest stilled as breath halted in his 
throat, a light sweat breaking in the heat of the day as the effect his 
brother’s ministrations had on him was evinced in the sudden interest that 
grew rapidly between his legs.  Acutely aware of their nudity, Orophin 
still could not pull his eyes away.
 
Rumil, too, stared with hungry hesitance as he allowed Orophin’s thoughts 
to lead him to whatever conclusion they would, his lips hovering inches 
away from the healing flesh of the pale thigh and the swelling flesh of the 
dusky sex.
 
Orophin offered no words, but finally released the sudden build of tension 
with a sultry exhalation, a barely heard sigh that stuttered with desire.
 
And Rumil found that small sigh more arousing than any whispered words 
or longing looks or karmic kisses.  His eyelashes fluttered as he 
whimpered low in his throat.  Inuring himself to the possibility of refusal 
or worse, Rumil’s grin widened as he whispered in halting breaths, “Have 
I healed your itch, Orophin?”
 
Grey eyes, still stunned, sought blue, and Orophin answered in hitching 
breaths.  “Aye, you’ve healed the hurt you inflicted, but I’m afraid you’ve 
provoked a new… ‘itch’ within me, brother.”
 
“Ah,” Rumil breathed out, his damp hair trailing the thighs, the groin, the 
stomach before him, “I apologize.  But since it was I who awoke the itch, 
then perhaps I should be the one to scratch it, eh?”  Young Rumil waited, 
his turn to be breathless, for an answer.
 
Orophin carefully regulated his own breathing, unable to control this 
burgeoning desire, still growing like a relentless vine within him.  “I 
don’t…” he halted his words, realizing he had spoke without thinking, and 
not for the first time that day.  “Why?”
 
Rumil shrugged, making the gesture an elegant ripple that rolled through 
his entire body.  “Because it feels right.  And good.  And I love you, dear 
brother.”
 
Relieved and smiling at this confession, Orophin sighed again, a sound of 
liberation.  “You are right.  I mean,” he stumbled over his words, “I feel 
exactly the same.”
 
Rumil again grinned his sweet smile, with a flirtatious edge to it.  “Then 
why do you make no move toward me?”
 
Hesitantly, Orophin’s curiosity crept forth with a troubled question, “What 
of Lord Glorfindel?”
 
His brother’s expression did not change as he spoke lovingly.  “Glorfindel 
will always be my first.  And I will always love him, as friend and mentor.  
But he is not meant for me, nor I for him.”  The silver-haired elf grew 
more serious as he continued.  “I know not if I shall ever be bound, but at 
this moment I desire nothing more than to lay with you here, now, and 
revel in the joys of life and love.”
 
A small gasp betrayed Orophin at the completion of this severe and honest 
declaration, but before he could respond, Rumil voiced a question of his 
own.  
 
“And you, Oro?  All those many lasses and lads you’ve chased over the 
years?  None have captured your heart?”
 
“My heart shall never be captured, but I may give it at my choosing to one 
I love.  I have shared pleasure with many; it is true, but always in the spirit 
of friendship and easy lust.  My heart is yet my own, and this day, I would 
share it with you.”
 
At this, Rumil’s grin grew blinding and he shifted forward, banishing the 
smile only so that his lips could mate properly with his brother’s, slow and 
heated and filled with a deep, unequivocal sort of love.
 
Orophin’s long-fingered hand fluttered like a frightened bird, echoing the 
beating of his heart, as he laid it, trembling, along Rumil’s pale cheek to 
draw him close and return this first true kiss with abandoned devotion.
 
A slick tongue tested the seam of full lips as Rumil breached his brother’s 
mouth, teasing and stroking until the heat of the summer day was nothing 
compared to the blaze kindled so swiftly between them.
 
Orophin remained propped by one hand entwined in the grass while the 
other still trembled against the smooth skin of his brother’s face, but 
Rumil’s hands were far from still, caressing ever-growing circles against a 
muscle-corded leg, the rippling planes of a taut stomach, the budding nubs 
of a smooth chest, until Orophin was panting and weak beneath him.
 
Finally, Orophin had to pull away, his grey eyes focused on the younger 
elf with devotion deeper than the sea and love truer than any oath.  
 
Rumil saw this, and smiled.  He moved over his gilded brother, coaxing 
him to lay flat on the bed of grass, that gold hair coiling beneath his head 
finer than strands of spun silk.  Rumil affectionately ran his nimble fingers 
through the sleek tresses while covering his brother’s face with kisses, 
from strong jaw to thin-lidded eyes, from red-tinted lips to pointed ears.
 
Giving himself up to this erotic pleasure, Orophin arched and writhed 
beneath loving kisses and claiming touches, feeling Rumil smile against 
his flushing cheek.  In turn, the elder elf let loose his passions, matching 
every teasing touch with one of his own as he thrust up relentlessly in a 
lazy, even rhythm.  
 
Wanton moans betrayed Rumil’s control and he lasciviously rolled his 
hips in turn, bowing his head to let silver locks drag along the sweating 
flesh beneath him in tantalizing swirls.  At this sensation, Orophin 
whimpered and drew his aggressor in for a deep kiss.
 
Then hungrily they moved together, devouring with mouths and tongue 
and teeth, claiming with fingers and hands, and thrusting madly to that 
ancient song.
 
Pressure built, and with a shout Orophin halted his movements begging, 
“Wait, wait!”
 
“Mmm?” Rumil managed as he pulled himself to hands and knees, 
separating their more intimate parts so he could attend Orophin’s plea with 
a clear head.
 
“Stand up, stand up brother,” the elder asked, guiding the slender sentry to 
his feet with firm, gentle hands.
 
Rumil stood shakily, looking questioningly down at Orophin, who kneeled 
temptingly before him.  And before Rumil could gather the wit to speak, 
the golden-haired nymph slid strong hands up supple legs to grip hips 
slimmer than his own.  Then, he kneeled up and Rumil gasped as his 
intentions finally became clear, snaking a sneaky tongue out to taste the 
sweat from the hairless body at that delicate crease where leg meets pelvis.
 
“Oh,” Rumil sighed out, the sight and sensations overwhelming.  Orophin 
continued nipping kisses and teasing licks up to his navel and back around 
the other side.  Rumil could not hold back the slight thrust of his hips, nor 
the strangled whimper from his throat as Orophin continued this new form 
of play.
 
“Cease your taunting, Oro, please…”
 
At his words, Orophin grinned, but acceded to his brother’s wishes with 
tender movements of lips and tongue on the head of the lean organ 
standing stiff before him.
 
Rumil sang out in the summer air, like birdsong, as Orophin swallowed 
him deeply, bringing him ever closer to the edge…
 
He stopped.  
 
“Ah!  Oro?”  Rumil’s dazed eyes widened, and he released the 
stranglehold he didn’t know he’d had on his brother’s shining yellow 
locks, watching as Orophin moved away to resume his lounging position 
on that green, green grass.  
 
Then, he spread his legs.
 
Rumil trembled at the wonton invitation, and sank to his knees before the 
sensual image.  “I love you, my dear brother,” he pledged, moving 
between those strong legs, pressing a kiss to the healing bite mark as he 
went.
 
“Ai,” Orophin sighed.  “And I love you.”  Rumil finally lay aligned atop 
him and their eyes met, grey and blue, and they smiled.
 
Rumil let a teasing hand slither its way up from Orophin’s hip to dance 
along his side, his chest, and his throat, before taking the hand away and 
bringing it to his own mouth, sucking two fingers inside as he watched 
Orophin’s intent observance.  “Ooh… that’s naughty,” the elder breathed 
hoarsely, unable to draw his eyes away.  “I like it.”
 
Smiling around his fingers, Rumil made good show of wetting the strong 
digits until Orophin wriggled impatiently beneath him.
 
The hand wetly backtracked its path until those fingers prodded at a 
waiting entrance, tapping the puckered flesh as if requesting entrance.  
Orophin nodded his readiness and sighed with pleasure as a slick finger 
penetrated the awakened ring of muscle and quickly established an 
unrushed rhythm.
 
Now it was Orophin singing out in gasps and moans as Rumil sought his 
center and added another finger to the not inexperienced passage.  “Oh, in 
me, yes,” came the barely coherent request, and Rumil – losing himself 
quickly to lust – instantly obeyed.  He removed the stretching fingers to 
steady himself at the loosened opening.  
 
A groan of pleasure overwhelmed Orophin’s slight whimper, protesting 
that inevitable burning pain.  But Rumil took care to move slow and read 
the signs his lover sent in touches and looks.  He held himself still until 
Orophin relaxed, and then withdrew and advanced again, and then again, 
delving deeper with each loving stroke, encouraged by the throaty noises 
his brother emitted.
 
“Ah!” Orophin called out, finding that he was clutching his brother close 
and dear and that a tear had escaped one grey eye.
 
Rumil saw this and slowed his movements.  He leant forward to lovingly 
kiss the salty drop away.  “You cry?” Rumil asked, keeping the thrusting 
moves shallow and slow as he brushed comforting hands through sun-
colored hair.  
 
“Aye, I have wanted this for so long,” Orophin finally admitted.  “And 
now I have you, it is more sweet, more tender, more perfect than anything 
I could ever wish for.”
 
Taken aback at this confession, Rumil halted with surprise, but then 
smiled in a bittersweet expression, and kissed Orophin’s chin.  “Now you 
have me,” he agreed.  “And you can have me for as long as you like.”
 
Orophin tensed beneath him and Rumil stilled completely, his dark brows 
furrowed in worry.
 
Orophin clutched the back of his brother’s neck and drew him down into a 
tight embrace as if their already intimate connection was not close enough.  
Orophin’s lips brushed a pointing ear and his usually strong voice 
quivered with hope as he whispered, “And what if I want you forever?”
 
Rumil laid a kiss to the dewy skin of Orophin’s neck before he pulled back 
to survey grey eyes wild with fear and love, a rough mingling of emotions.  
“You would gift your heart to your own brother?”
 
“Aye.  I wish it so.  Will you keep my heart safe, Rumil?”
 
“It shall beat alongside my own, and we both shall care for each other, for 
I think you are the one for me.”  Rumil halted before asking, “Do you then 
suppose we should defy elven custom?  For while education of the flesh is 
overlooked, the binding of a kinsman’s heart is not favored.”
 
“If I cannot have you to share my life and my love, than I shall cast aside 
all others,” Orophin declared.  “No sin is so great as an elf alone, who may 
whither of grief and despair.”
 
Rumil managed a smile through all this talk and answered in kind, “Our 
family hardly has an upstanding history,” he agreed.  “And I find no sin in 
our love, brother.”
 
“Then shut up and drive me to madness, dear one,” Orophin agreed with a 
grin, shifting to thrust against his lover.
 
Rumil stole one more lingering kiss before complying with his brother’s 
wishes and stroking deep within him.
 
Their movements, though fierce, retained a gentleness inherent in cautious 
lovers meeting flesh to flesh for the first of many times.  Crystalline voices 
sounded their pleasure in the forest as they danced the ancient dance 
together, brother and brother, lover and lover.
 
Whining moans became desperate, rising in pitch and volume.  Rumil 
reached between their entwined bodies to grasp his lover and stroke him in 
this forceful tempo they’d created until Orophin crowed his release, 
convulsing and shuddering with brutal intensity.
 
He had held back, waiting.  And as soon as Orophin reached completion, 
Rumil allowed himself to follow, slamming hard into that willing, loving 
body - strong and beautiful - beneath him.  “Orophin!”
 
If time then passed, if the earth then moved, if the sun kept to its path, then 
the brothers did not know it.
 
They lay panting, relishing in the delightful lightness that centered them 
and filled them with peace.
 
“I love you.”
 
“Yes, love you always,” Orophin agreed brokenly.
 
Closely clung the brothers, finding stability only with one another.
 
After many moments of sweet and gentle touches, they moved back to the 
convenient pool, washing away the sweat, the grass, the stains amid 
adoring caresses and amorous kisses.
 
Finally, clean and sated and impossibly happy, they lay naked together on 
the verdant bank, with legs again entwined and fingers laced.
 
Orophin tilted his head to look down at Rumil, who found Orophin’s chest 
a convenient pillow and rested half atop him, silver hair spilling onto 
golden skin and lush grass.  A deep quiet had settled on the younger 
brother.  “What troubles you, Rumil?”
 
Rumil shifted, restless, against him.  He changed positions, lying face 
down on top of Orophin and peering with those deep blue eyes into his 
brother’s grey ones with troubled intensity.  “It is Haldir.”
 
“Ah,” Orophin agreed, shifting to place one hand behind his head, running 
the other through silver silk.  “Our dear brother.  He has been…”
 
“Distant.”
 
“Aye.  Well, he’s always been distant.  But now, he even pulls away from 
us.”
 
“He mourns in silence,” Rumil insisted.  “But what he mourns, I cannot 
say.”
 
“Neither will he,” Orophin joked.
 
“Nay, he will not,” Rumil lamented.  He sighed deeply, resting his head 
beside Orophin’s and lightly kissing the smooth jaw.  “It all began with 
The Dance.”
 
Orophin’s brows fell in confusion.  “Why do you think so?  He did not 
even