The Hunter and the Hare by cuarthol, polutropos

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Carnistir

Carnistir does not have a good time at Tirion's masked ball.

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The twins were dressed in matching wolf costumes.  He could have been a wolf.  He would have been fine with a wolf.  Turko was a stag, and while Carnistir did not feel the animal suited his brother’s temperament, the horns certainly did.  Even Makalaurë, outfitted as a most outlandishly bright orange seahorse, seemed perfectly suited to his animalistic disguise.

Moryo stared at his mask.  The floopy ears which seemed to only ever want to fall down across his eyes were not even the worst part of it.  That distinction fell to the fluffy white tail.  He found the only thing he could be grateful for was his father had not made ridiculously oversized matching feet.

‘It is a hare,’ his father had corrected when Moryo lifted it and cried, ‘A bunny?  You made me a bunny?’ while Curufin snickered in the corner.

He had not been mollified by the distinction, no matter how eloquently his father had waxed on about the nature of hares vs. rabbits.  It had certainly been too late to make an alternate, and so he stood before the mirror in what was an objectively well constructed, mottled brown suit of fur which contained subtle gold threads which caught the light and made him sparkle, while simultaneously being forced to don a freak-of-nature looking mask and headdress, set with eyes which had clearly seen the void and ears which refused to stay upright.

Maitimo’s costume was not such an indignity - his own glorious mane of copper hair had been employed in its execution, that of a proud lion, and the effect was one of both intimidating power and radiant beauty.  And Curufin, like their father, had managed to weasel out of almost every last vestige of a costume, wearing an airy burgundy robe which glowed like molten metal and plumed headdress to match Fëanáro’s.  His ‘mask’ was an intricate lace-like pattern painted onto his face, doing nothing to hide his identity.

A weasel would have suited Curufin.

But he was stuck as a rabbit.  

“Moryo, we’re going to be late!” his mother called up the stairs.

He stifled a sob as he pulled the mask on, grateful that at least nobody would know it was him, and trudged down to join the rest of his family, pushing his ears out of his face.

***

It was still early, the hall barely half-filled.  There was music and dancing already, but Moryo made a bee-line for the refreshments, avoiding eye contact and any threat of conversation.  He quickly lost track of most of his siblings, except for Káno who stood out like a beacon, and had already managed to net himself a partner.

Turning back to the table, Moryo piled his plate with a number of delicacies, took two glasses of wine, and found a leafy potted tree next to a pillar to hide behind.  It offered him the perfect vantage to watch the main doors for anyone he wished to particularly avoid.

So it was that he also had the perfect view of two newly-arrived revelers.  The first was dressed as a hawk, with a feathered shawl like wings down his back.  The other, however, seemed indeed dressed to reveal.  While the costume could not be said to lack coverage, said coverage looked far more theoretical than actual.

He - presumably a he - glimmered golden-red with a pale underbelly and a sheer, tiger-striped robe which hid nothing beneath.  The splendid tiger moved with ease and grace through the crowd, quickly proving an acquaintance of Turko’s.

Of course.  A pang of jealousy curled in his stomach and he set his still half-full plate aside.  He must be from the hunts and would therefore not be the least interested in the awkward middle-son of Fëanáro.  Except perhaps to hunt him for sport.

The idea sparked a strange tingling sensation in his gut.

***

After a while the music ended and Finwë took the stage, giving what was undoubtedly a very proper sort of speech, filled with the usual platitudes and welcomes, nothing that Carnistir felt deserved particular attention.

Then the lights dimmed except for those illuminating the performance of Indis.  She dressed in a deep blue-black gown set with no less than a thousand precious jewels, shining like stars in the spotlight.  A delicate wire and glass cage was set on her head, an ode to the lamps from before the Quendi had awoken, and about which she sang.

It was an old song, considered out of fashion in Tirion, though it seemed the Vanyar had not tired of it.  But hers was not an unpleasant voice, he grudgingly conceded, though would never admit it aloud.  What left him sputtering on his wine, however, was the sudden and unexpected appearance of Ingoldo.

He sparkled gold from head to toe, garlands of fruits and leaves wound about the branches of his crest and trailing down his back.  Moryo snorted.  Laurelin himself; of course he was.  He threw back the rest of his wine and eased himself out onto the garden balcony.

Under normal circumstances this would have been an ideal escape, except for the tiger, who was currently in a rather scandalous embrace with a bear, and his stomach twisted again.  This was quickly proving to be the kind of party he could not endure.

This part of the balcony had no steps down to the garden, but the drop was not so very great.  He slipped over the railing unnoticed and landed in the soft grass below.  Pondering whether remaining in the gardens counted as still being at the party or not, he made his way to the hedge maze and pulled out the book he had smuggled along for just such emergencies.

He was three chapters in - just getting to the steamy part - before his solitude was so rudely shattered by the wanton cries of a lady in a most unladylike fashion.  Was there truly no peace to be found in the whole of Aman, or was he simply fated to be denied it?

Thankfully, the maze had several avenues of escape, and he slunk out the far side of it, only to stumble upon the tiger and bear in a similarly compromising position.  Though they, at least, were managing to keep from alerting all and sundry to their enjoyments.

There truly was no safe place left to hide, and even his means of escaping back to the hall had been cut off by his father and that damned Ingoldo, deep in conversation.  Whatever could they possibly be talking about?  He scoffed.

Well, there was nothing else for it but to go the last way open to him, soon finding himself in the bushes beneath the Arafinwëan wing of the palace.  Here, surely, he would be safe.  Here, surely, he could have five minutes of peace without being subjected to the unseemly passions of everyone else.

“Why, hello there, little hare.”

Moryo cursed under his breath, but then he looked up to see the tiger standing over him, and lost his breath entirely, unable to even conjure up a reply.

“Are you lost?” he continued.

“No,” Moryo croaked, then cleared his throat and more firmly said, “No.  I am not lost, thank you.  Now if you’ll excuse me.”

The tiger cocked his head slightly.  “Moryo?”

Oh, damn it all to Utumno’s pits!  “No,” he tried, but the tiger did not accept his denial.

“Well, I certainly did not expect to stumble upon you here, of all places.”

“It’s not what it looks like!” he cried, still not certain to whom he spoke but fearing the assumption that he had deliberately sought out Arafinwë’s house.  He had, of course, but not for the reasons one might assume.

“Well, if it isn’t what it looks like,” the tiger said, “I will be off.”

“Wait-!”

He paused, expectation hanging thick in the air.