Across the Dance Floor by StarSpray

Across the Dance Floor

The hall in which Anairë’s cousin Iscamírë celebrated her betrothal to Nityamalo glittered and gleamed in the Mingling Light as it slowly shifted silver as Telperion waxed and Laurelin waned. There were more people on the dance floor than lived in the village where Anairë had lived until just a few weeks previously, and it was hard not to feel just a little overwhelmed. But her home in the countryside was not so far from Tirion that it missed all of the fashions and trends, and Anairë knew the dance steps, and found herself with no lack of partners through the evening.

When she stopped to catch her breath, her cousin—whose betrothal was the subject of celebration that evening—brought her a goblet of wine and leaned in to whisper, “You’ve caught the eye of someone tonight, Anairë!”

“I have?” Anairë took the goblet, blinking and trying to recall if someone had been paying her particular attention. “Who?”

“Look across the room, by the lilies.” Iscamírë leaned back and sipped her own wine, looking quietly pleased. Anairë also took a sip and let her gaze roam over the room until it rested upon a pair of brothers by one of the large vases of lilies set about the room. One was tall and dark, the other slightly shorter, fair-haired, and with broader shoulders—the Princes of the Noldor, Nolofinwë and Arafinwë. Neither of them were looking in her direction, but Arafinwë was laughing at something and bumping his shoulder into his brother’s.

Anairë looked back at her cousin. “Surely not!”

“Prince Nolofinwë has hardly taken his eyes off of you all evening!” Iscamírë laughed at whatever expression was on Anairë’s face. “You should have come to Tirion ages ago, Cousin. I won’t have time enough now to arrange your match while planning my own wedding.”

“I don’t want you to arrange any match for me!” Anairë exclaimed. “Let alone with—I’ve barely exchanged two words with him!”

“You’ll soon have a chance for more,” said Iscamírë. “Look! He’s coming this way now. Good evening, Your Highness!” she said brightly, turning from Anairë to Nolofinwë, while Anairë ducked her head, wishing her hair were loose enough to fall over her face to hide her embarrassment. “We are honored by your presence this evening. I hope you are enjoying yourself?”

“I am,” said Nolofinwë with a smile and a brief bow. They exchanged more pleasantries—congratulations on Iscamírë and Nityamalo’s engagement, remarks about the dancing and the music, until Iscamírë was either called away or pretended to be.

Then Nolofinwë turned his smile to Anairë. At a distance he had been striking; up close he was almost distressingly handsome. Anairë did not consider herself at all shy, but now she stood tongue-tied and nervous and feeling very foolish about it. What was she supposed to say? Iscamírë had stolen all of the topics suitable for party conversation among strangers.

Fortunately, Nolofinwë did not seem to feel the same awkwardness. “May I have this next dance, Lady Anairë?” he asked, as the current song faded away and the musicians prepared the next.

Well, that made things easy. Anairë smiled at him and, setting aside her goblet, slipped her hand into his. It seemed very small, brown and ink-stained, against his larger and paler fingers, though she was surprised and pleased to see he also had traced of ink underneath his fingernails. “I would be delighted, Your Highness,” she said.