The Unspoken by Elfique

Part IV

Many thanks to Aearwen for spotting some terrible errors!

She catches his eye again, as he knows she shouldn’t. But there is just something different, an aspect he cannot put a finger upon. It is not as if he has never seen the Lady Aredhel before… he has served her brother many a year now, watching her grow up in the background until the little girl who used to braid his hair became the woman who wildly led hunts.

Then again it was not as if the Lady Aredhel had ever worn yellow or gold before. Perhaps that was it. But then why should she now? The questions plague him, he is caught in uncertainty – a rare thing. Golden yellow is the colour of his house. That is one certainty he does have.

Soft light gently fades outside, casting a warm aura in the pillared hall. Barely conscious of himself, he tilts his head on the side, considering her as she flits and dances about the hall. Dark hair is bound and braided with golden filigree, her narrow waist is girdled with a creamy yellow.

A polite cough startles him from a reverie he had been caught in unawares. Ecthelion stands beside him, an irritating smile of knowing amusement gracing his usually solemn features. Glorfindel ignores it. Or at least tries to for several minutes.

“My pardons friend, you have me at a disadvantage - is there something I should find amusing? Does the Lady Aredhel wear the colours of a new suitor that I have not yet been informed of?”

“Oh you are an idiot… perhaps you should ask her yourself” his friend nods beyond him in reference. As Glorfindel turns to see, her eyes pin him to the spot, escape is inevitable even if he wished it. Baring down upon him with a wide smile she could not have been more dangerously inviting. Unnaturally his innards seem to jump at her approaching presence.

“Lords Ecthelion, Glorfindel, you are both looking well,”

“Thank you my Lady, you are looking radiant as always, but especially in such bright raiment” ever the courtier Ecthelion has no issue with his words, yet Glorfindel finds he can only stand mute and tongue tied as her eyes slowly sweep over him.

“Too kind Ecthelion, too kind!” she replies, “I almost wore flowers too… what would you think, Glorfindel, to golden flowers entwined about me?”

Ecthelion must have swallowed his wine incorrectly; he was coughing and spluttering into his glass as Glorfindel felt his face flush with warmth.

“And speaking of flowers, would you honour me with a dance Lord Glorfindel? I did not know the flowers of your house could be so inclined to grow on the walls and in the shade…”

Several thousand possibilities and emotions were clamouring to fill his mind at her question. Shock. Fulfilment. Humility. Duty. Bliss. Awkwardness. Elation. Caution. Wonder. Propriety.

“I… I do not think that would be wise my Lady…I fear I may have drunk too much, my clumsy feet would only shame you,” the worlds come even clumsier and he finds he cannot look her in the eyes.

She looks down her nose at him, clearly disappointed.

“Well then my Lords I will take my leave of you, be sure to enjoy your evening,” her frosty withdrawal is worse than seeing her quickly find the third son of Fëanor to dance with.

“She was serious you know.” Recovered, Ecthelion rests a comforting hand on his shoulder.

Glorfindel’s jaw clenches in indecision. But was she? Was he?