Golden Days by Lyra

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Chapter 2

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Chapter 2

 

But I completely forgot to tell the tale when I finally returned home. That may seem strange to you, but truth be told it was just not important to me. I did not turn my steps home until I noticed a desire to see my family again, and to turn my sketches into sculpture; then it took me several days (although I was now walking fast, the beauties of the landscape having grown familiar) to reach my parents' house. By that time my fingers were itching; I could hardly wait to start working, and only reassured my parents that I was well before rushing to the workshop, mimicking the shapes in my sketchbook in clay before even unpacking my bag. Sure enough my parents and their apprentices, not to mention my sisters, asked many questions about my journey that evening, which I answered truthfully. But none of them asked whether I had met anybody on the road, and without anything to remind me of the encounter I did not think of it. Sarnië, my youngest sister, did indeed ask whether I had not felt lonely, out in the uncharted lands all by myself – but the honest answer to that was no, I had not, and that was all it took to answer her question.

 

The journey proved to have been an effective cure of my unrest; my thirst for adventure stilled for the moment and my hunger for news satisfied I could return to my usual life and work without the slightest grudge. Moreover my art profited greatly from it, though I did not even notice that at first. But when I finished my first project – a sculpture of the fox I had watched for a day, captured in stone in that same pose of alert curiosity the animal had taken when, after hours of sketching, I had stretched my legs and it had turned its face towards me, one leg raised, frozen in mid-step – and gifted it to my father, he saw it at once. "Is it truly a sculpture?" he said, his huge, forge-calloused hands stroking the rough sandstone as if to ascertain that it was indeed stone, not flesh and fur. "Yes," I said. "The sandstone is quite good, is it not? I chose it especially for its colour," for it was a very dark variety, more orange than ochre, veined with streaks of truly dark red. Father laughed. "It is, but it's not the sandstone that caused my surprise! Nerdanel, I don't think I ever saw such a lifelike fox in stone. Had you set it in the garden, I would have tried to chase it away from the chicken, and would have wondered why it did not move until I had realised that it was but a sculpture. It is marvellous; it's like you captured the very essence of the fox. How did you do this?"

 

I did not know what to reply; all I could offer were speculations about insights the long observation of the fox, and the many drawings I had made of it in its natural habitat, might have given me. The fox did look very lifelike, certainly more so than my earlier works; I just could not pinpoint what exactly I had done differently. But naturally I was pleased with the praise.

From the remains of that red stone I made a young squirrel for Sarnië – she was then in the habit of hoarding and hiding sweets, and often enough we wondered about red stains on cushions and found that she had hidden cherries underneath, or discovered a rotting pasty under a cupboard where she had forgotten about her hidden treasure. I thought a squirrel was therefore a fitting gift for her, and she was indeed delighted when I handed it to her, although her delight lessened somewhat when she realised that it was not alive. "I thought you'd caught me a real squirrel," she said, looking disappointed. "It looked like you had."

I smiled. "But little one, how would the squirrel feel if I caught it and you kept it in the house?"

"I would love it very much, and cuddle it all the time; surely it would be happy," she said.

"But squirrels love to run and climb on trees. I don't think it would want to be cuddled all the time, and I don't think it would like living in a house," said I. "Besides, it would steal all your sweetmeats." That, at least, seemed to convince her. And the next day the next page of my sketchbook helped me to begin working on a peacock for my other sister, Erenwen, and after that I was planning to create a rose-bush for my mother, who, though everything else in our garden flourished as much as you could wish for, was eternally unlucky with roses.

 

In other words, I kept busy and had little time for story-telling. If it had not been for Erenwen I might have spent the next weeks thinking of nothing but sleeping, eating, doing my chores and sculpting. But Erenwen, dear soul, conspired with my friends (whom I neglected dreadfully in those days, it is true) to abduct me to a ball in Tirion; and they ignored my protests, and laid out my dancing robes, and belaboured me as I worked, and I gave in.

 

Considering the difficulties they had to drag me along, you might get the idea that I did not value their company, or disliked the dances. Neither is true. I loved them dearly, and I also loved dancing. I was not even a bad dancer. It's just that I did not get to do too much dancing. The pretty girls – my sister; my dear friends Ataralassë and Númiel; my sister's friends; everybody, really – were dancing all the time, of course, only missing a set when they needed a drink or some fresh air. I, alas, was less lucky. Oh, I did get asked occasionally, but that usually happened only when too many others were taking a break, or during a dance with changing partners where it did not matter so much who your started the dance with, as sooner or later you would certainly land at the side of the lady you actually meant to lead. Sometimes one of the apprentices would ask me, doubtlessly aiming to please my father. But there was a clear preference for other dancers. I did not blame the young men of Tirion; of course they all wanted to dance with the beautiful girls, not with someone as plain as me with my hammer-worn hands, who never looked quite at ease in my finery. There was a certain joy in watching the others dance, all those beautiful people moving in unison, with twirling robes and cheerful music. I am an artist after all; I can watch and appreciate beauty without needing to be a part of it. Yet I could not help feeling that it wasn't entirely fair.

 

But I had not been to a ball for a long time, so I gave up my resistance and was sufficiently cheerful as we made our way to the park in which the ball was to be held. Long before we got there, we heard the music, the laughter, and the swishing of robes, and then we turned around the last bend and came onto the festival meadow. It was framed by high trees, offering a retreat for the tired (officially) and for lovers who longed for some privacy (inofficially). The trees shadowed it from the light of the Trees, but their branches were hung with multi-coloured paper lanterns competing in colour and splendour with the robes of the dancers. At the far end, the furthest away from the road, the musicians sat and played. The ball was still in its early stages, with the quick, simple dances that enable people to shake off the day's thoughts and works and to get into the festive spirit. Almost everybody was dancing at this point. Later they would need air, or something to drink, or time to exchange news with friends they had not seen in a while; but they were not yet tired out from too much dancing, and thus only those unlucky enough to have gone without a partner stood at the side, condemned to watch their peers' amusement.

 

In one of them I recognised Aimíriel, a former apprentice of my father. I wondered to see her alone, for she had married little more than a year ago; certainly her husband should ask her to dance, if nobody else did? I steered towards her, feeling a little uneasy but nonetheless curious. The others followed me.

"Well met, Aimíriel," I said, eyeing her face; it looked perfectly content, even happy, so I dared to say more. "What happened to your husband?"

She grinned and said, with the dramatic gesturing of an actress performing a scene of great sorrow, "Alas, he left me for a younger woman!" I blinked, but then I saw Palatáro in the dancing throng next to Aimíriel's younger sister, and I grinned as well. We embraced, and Erenwen asked whether Aimíriel often had to lend her husband to her sister. "Only in dancing," Aimíriel said wryly, and we laughed. Erenwen blushed. I could not help but feel some satisfaction at her embarrassment, for I suspected that she was so interested in that point because she feared that, once she had secured a husband, she might have to lend him to me (it was generally agreed among us that she would be married far sooner than I). I thought I had no intention whatsoever to steal her husband, who would doubtlessly be of the vapid (if fashionable) sort anyway. When we had laughed our share, Aimíriel grew earnest again. "Honestly I don't know if I would have let him go already, but I must be careful about those fast, wild dances," and with a conspiratory wink she touched her belly. I gasped. "Aimíriel! Congratulations! How wonderful for you!"  Erenwen and Númiel, Arinseldë and Ataralassë, Helyanwë and Lisanto all joined in their congratulations. "When will it be born?" asked Númiel, and Lisanto asked, "Do you know whether it will be a boy or a girl?" Aimíriel laughed and answered, and when the set was done and Palatáro and Niëninque rejoined us, he got to hear his share of congratulations as well. Erenwen grew bored of the formalities soon enough, and she began to fidget and scan the crowds for other familiar faces. I humoured her, listening to her comments to keep her from disturbing the others, who were still discussing Aimíriel's belly.

 

"Look what a beautiful torc Lintello is wearing! It's not Father's work, is it?"

"I cannot remember seeing him make it, but perhaps he did while I was away?"

"No, no, then I should remember it, and I don't. It really is quite nice, isn't it?"
It was – from what I could recognise, for Lintello was in the middle of a twirling circle – but when I was ready to discuss its workmanship, Erenwen's attention had already found another victim. "Now Serecálo, what was he thinking? That purple robe looks horrible on him." I sighed. It was indeed an unfortunate colour to go with Serecálo's ruddy cheeks and brown hair, but what business of Erenwen's was it? "Perhaps his betrothed loves purple, and he wears it to please her," I suggested. My sister snorted. "How could anyone be pleased when he looks so silly?"
"Perhaps he simply does not care," I said gently, hoping that somebody would ask Erenwen for a dance soon so she would be busy and stop dissembling other people. I loved her dearly, but sometimes I found her embarrassing. Now I heard her sigh. "There's Fëanáro," she said, and sighed again in that dreamy way many young (and even some of the no-longer young, and happily married) women sighed when seeing the King's eldest son. Erenwen, I'm afraid, was one of those ladies I'd had in mind when I told him I wasn't one of them, only a few weeks ago. "At least he's got taste," Erenwen said. "Doesn't he look splendid in those robes?"

"Yes, well," I said, bored, and added without thinking, "and doubtlessly just as splendid without them," and then I realised what I'd said and blushed.

"Nerdanel!" Erenwen squealed, half shocked and half delighted. Our friends stopped their talk and turned their attention to us, and my cheeks grew even warmer. "What did she do?" asked Númiel cheerfully. "Shut up," I told Erenwen, but she ignored me. "She said that Prince Fëanáro might as well go naked," and now my friends' laughter was directed at me. "I did not say it like that," I protested. "I just pointed out that it doesn't really matter what robes he wears." Erenwen smirked. "Yes, unlike in Serecálo's case," she said, and there was more laughter.

"Well, he is a pretty enough fellow," Aimíriel said good-naturedly, understating things for (I assume) the sake of her husband. "So you've taken a fancy on him, eh, Nerdanel?"

"Nonsense," I said, truthfully enough, but they wouldn't believe me.

"Well," Palatáro said, "You can be certain that he'll dance with you – once," and this time I joined in their laughter. It was a well-known fact that Prince Fëanáro was aspiring to have danced with every woman in all of Tirion with the possible exception of his step-mother, and never danced with any woman twice. To what purpose I do not know; maybe he wanted to prove to himself that no woman could resist him?

"Until that time comes," Helyanwë, one of Father's apprentices, said, "would you grace me with a dance, Nerdanel?" I gratefully took his hand and left the silly bunch talking amongst themselves.

 

Helyanwë stayed by my side for more than just the one dance, and then I rejoined Aimíriel. When the musicians took their first break, Númiel brought a pitcher of wine, and Erenwen had organised some goblets. The dancing had obviously been to her satisfaction, for she was smiling broadly. I envied her then – not for the dancing, which had been just as enjoyable, but for her pretty face, even lovelier now that she was a little flushed and some strands of hair had escaped their braids. But those were silly thoughts; there was little point in wishing for a prettier face, for I could hardly take a chisel to my own nose and chin to improve their plain form. I returned her happy smile. Palatáro joined us soon after, having procured lemonade for his pregnant wife, and we toasted each other and chatted animatedly until the musicians took their places again.

 

Now began the somewhat laid-back part of the ball with its more stately dances - without any running and changing of partners. Each of the apprentices dutifully danced one dance with me, but afterwards they sought out prettier girls. Palatáro was my partner for one of the faster dances but dedicated the slower ones to his wife, as he should. Aimíriel was very careful, so at least I had company most of the time. She wanted to hear about my journey and I recounted it in detail, leaving out only my encounter with Fëanáro, which I now remembered – after my earlier careless remark, she would doubtlessly have understood that entirely wrong, and I did not wish to give any more cause for stupid gossip, no matter how funny a story it would have made, the proud Prince imprisoned by a rabbit.

 

I might as well have told it, and if I'd known what was to happen I would have, for he embarrassed me not much later. The musicians had taken another break, and my friends had gathered again, and we had sat down to enjoy another pitcher of wine and some peaches when my sister suddenly stiffened. "He's coming over here," she whispered. "Who?" Lisanto asked, wiping peach juice off his knife with a formerly white handkerchief. "Fëanáro," Erenwen whispered (loud enough for everyone around us to hear, I thought). I followed her gaze, and true enough he was walking in our general direction. I shrugged. "Perhaps he wants to secure Lanyalossë's hand for the next dance," I suggested; Lanyalossë was one of the most beautiful girls I knew, and had almost as many admirers as Fëanáro had. She was kind enough, too, in the disdainful way of the perfect; I didn't have much to do with her unless I needed new dress and met her at her parents' house (her mother was a weaver and her father sewed our clothes), but whenever we spoke, she was perfectly friendly. And she was sitting among her friends not far from our little group. Certainly that was where the Prince was headed.

"But he's danced with her already." Erenwen, it seemed, was keeping track.

"Perhaps he wants to dance with her a second time," I suggested. "Won't that be something!"

"Unfair that would be. We haven't had him yet!" Arinseldë protested. Erenwen agreed, and I grew embarrassed; they were speaking louder now, and the others would surely overhear. Aimíriel, too, took their side. "Don't you know that he has to dance with every woman in Tírion first? While there are yet some missing he can hardly favour one he's already danced with."

"There will always be at least one missing," I said, rolling my eyes, "for I for my part will never dance with him, not even if I spend all evening standing around without a single partner." Most of them laughed, except for Númiel, who looked at me wide-eyed. "But he's so handsome! Why would you say him no?"

"Because Nerdanel is afraid of handsome people," Erenwen quipped, and I gave her an angry glare. "I am not," I said to Númiel. "I would say no because I refuse to be a name on his list. If he has no other reason to dance with me than that I am a woman, and he must lead each woman in dance once, we may as well not dance at all." I said this forcefully, and they were jumping to their foolish conclusions again.

"Oh hoh," Erenwen said, grinning. "So you want him to ask you – for love? For your hand in marriage?" She batted her eyelashes and blew a kiss at me. I gritted my teeth. "Don't be absurd, Erenwen," I said, "I want nothing of him. He's far too conceited for my taste." Not even Aimíriel believed me, although she only patted my shoulder, sympathetically. "Poor Nerdanel," she said, "you have taken a fancy to him." And then we rose because he had passed Lanyalossë's throng and came towards us, and we curtsied because he was, after all, the King's son.

 

"Well met," he said formally, adding, "Nerdanel. Aimíriel, Palatáro…" He stopped, and I knew that he did not know the names of the others, and blushed because he had named me first and I knew the others would jump to further conclusions. We curtsied again, and there was a bit of awkward silence until I realised that Palatáro was dumbstruck, or at any rate not going to introduce our company. I sighed. "Prince Fëanáro," I said, hastily forcing a smile. "May I introduce you to my sister, Erenwen, and my good friends, Númiel and Arinseldë daughters of Númaitë; Niëninque, who happens to be Aimíriel's sister; Ataralassë daughter of Hallantar; Helyanwë son of Ristando, Sailatulco son of Veurotulco and Alcarincë son of Alcaráco, apprentices of my father." He gave all of them a slight bow, adding a dutiful, "Pleased to meet you. I hope you've been having an enjoyable evening so far." I thought he didn't sound particularly pleased nor particularly interested, but Erenwen giggled delightedly anyway. He, horror of horrors, turned back to me. "Nerdanel, might I ask you for the next dance?"

 

I suppose I should just have agreed and got it over with, and maybe I would have – but I could hardly go back on my words to my friends, who were, no doubt, expecting just that. "Oh," I said, trying to think of an excuse and finally taking the most foolish one. "Oh, I am still a little out of breath from the last dances. I think I need a little more rest." I spoke fast as though I were indeed short of breath, and managed an apologetic smile. "Perhaps you want to ask one of my friends instead?"

He studied me for longer than I was comfortable with, and I thought I saw a glint of resentment in his eyes – at being kept from adding another partner to his list, I was sure. "Very well," he finally said, inclining his head to Erenwen. "May I ask you to stand in for your sister, then?"

Erenwen giggled nervously, and I saw Fëanáro's brow crease; then my sister regained her composure, and said, "Of course you may", accepting his proffered hand. She was practically glowing with pride, turning back to see whether we were watching while he led her to the other dancers.

I sat down heavily.

 

Looking back I cannot say why I felt such resentment towards him then. He had never wronged me; he had been sufficiently courteous towards me; he had spoken no offending word yet. Still the thought of so much as touching his hand made me feel nauseous; dancing with him? Unthinkable. I think it was the way other people reacted to him that made me dislike him so much: the sighing, preening, the battling for his attention and his hand in a dance, the deference, the silent awe. I thought then that he delighted in these displays, that he sought them, dressing prettily so more maidens would swoon at his sight, or agree to one dance – on single dance – with him. I did not want to be thought one of them, and so perhaps I erred on the other side. While he was not perfect, I suppose he was not as evil as I made him.

 

I thought him very evil, however, when he returned with a grinning Erenwen and asked whether I had recovered my breath. I shook my head, told him to ask Númiel, and felt thoroughly miserable. For what if he had danced with all my friends, and still insisted on dancing with me?

 

And of course he did. "I did not see you dancing all that much," he observed crossly. "You cannot possibly be so exhausted."

"Actually, I have a headache," I lied. I was angry now. So he had been watching me, had he? What business of his was it? Perhaps I should just have told him that I would not dance with him, ever, but that would have felt too impolite. He was, after all, a prince. If only he got the hint, I thought. "I think I should go home and rest," I told him.

The resentment made way for a look of feigned concern. "Shall I bring you home?"

My eyes widened, I noticed that, and I hoped he would take it as a sign of that inordinate awe other people displayed around him. Strange, is it not? Though I hated him, I would not have him think me impolite. "Oh no, sir, pray do not trouble yourself. I'll be fine. I am sure I am just tired."

"It is not right that you should walk alone when you are not feeling well."

"It is all right, it is all right!" My voice sounded shrill to my own ears; I felt ashamed of myself. Why should he care? Why could he not leave me alone? "My sister will walk me home, I will be quite all right." Erenwen gave me a surprised and somewhat hurt look, but by now I was feeling distraught enough to truly develop a headache, and so she rose with a deep sigh, and said that of course she would take me home. (And she did; although on the way home she gushed about what a wonderful dancer he was, and how beautiful, and how gracefully he moved. She would not understand why I had not allowed him to accompany me home. I do not quite understand it myself. It was doubtlessly an honour, and it would have made all those sighing, preening maidens green with envy.)

He finally gave in. "Very well," he said, bowing to us – very courtly again. "Next time, then."

"Yes, yes," I said hastily, without thinking, and grimaced in dismay at that foolish promise.

"I hope you feel better soon," he said, perhaps mistaking my grimace for one of pain. "Good night", he told the others, and marched off. I sighed with relief. Now I could have stayed longer – the air felt fresher, the breeze cooler with him gone. But I had fooled him, and frightened Erenwen; I had to continue playing ill lest I be proven a liar. So we made our way home. I was taciturn, she bubbling with excitement. She was proud and cheerful, and I was confused. I do not know what I was thinking. All I knew was that I would have to avoid all dances until further notice.

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Chapter End Notes

For anyone interested in the kind of dances I'm having in mind for the balls of Tirion: A friend and I are working on a kind of Playford for Middle-earth.

As that is nowhere near completion or presentability, however: The fast dances Nerdanel mentions are inspired by circular folk dances like today's Sciarazula, Ungaresca etc., whereas the slow, stately dances are inspired by Italian quattrocento dances - very stately indeed, and very complicated even once you've mastered the basic steps. In my personal ethnography of the Noldor, actual Playford-style contredanses only really came into fashion after the Flight, although I assume that their roots would also lie in Aman - at a later point in time, however. They'll be danced by the children of this story's characters. ;)

There, that was some really random information, wasn't it? 

 Nerdanel is being rather judgemental here, I fear. This may be partly because I feel that "understanding the minds of others rather than mastering them" is not necessarily as great as it sounds. It requires quite a lot of interpretation and jugement of other people's words and actions, and that can quite easily go wrong. I mean, surely we all know how easy it is to misinterprete someone's actions. Even wise Nerdanel would surely occasionally have erred in her "understanding" of others' minds...