The Golden Dancer by Lyra

The Golden Dancer

Read The Golden Dancer

Father and son left Lórien at the Mingling of the Lights, riding home in silence. Exhausted after the night's wake, their hearts heavy, they looked down as they rode along the gentle path that led back towards Tirion. Neither had mind or sight to spare for the marvels by the wayside – the flowers, the splendour of Laurelin as its foliage and glow intensified, the starkness of the Mahanaxar, the beauty of Valmar. They came this way often, and had grown familiar with its sights; and their thoughts were rather with Míriel whom they had, as always, had to leave behind.

They had passed Taniquetil when a flurry of movement tore them out of their contemplation. A figure was dancing in the golden haze upon the grassy slope; a woman of the Vanyar, Finwion realised as they came closer, although aside from the fair hair, braided back sternly, she was nothing like the Vanyar he had met so far. Nor was her dance anything like the courtly dances that he was accustomed to. She moved with exceeding grace, but at stunning speed and in abrupt, precise movements. Instead of a dancing partner, her hands held a long staff. There was no point at its end, but from the way she stabbed the air and thrust the staff into invisible opponents, it immediately made Finwion think of a spear, whereas the dance with its high jumps and sudden turns made him think of a lark in flight.

The golden dancer whirled this way and that, advancing and withdrawing, jumping up into the air, ducking counter-attacks that only she could see. The spear-staff swung and twirled and whistled. The woman was dressed very simply, in undyed leggings and a sleeveless tunic belted with a simple braided rope. Finwion, who had only ever seen Vanyar who came as embassadors to his father, or as guests to the city of Tirion, had not known that such strength was hiding underneath their long, flowing robes. Without noticing it, both father and son had bridled their horses to a halt in order to watch. Finwion watched the dancer's well-defined muscles flex and relax in rapt fascination. The dancer's skin was covered in a fine layer of sweat that seemed to shine with Laurelin's light. Every motion was efficient, Finwion realised. There were none of the pretty but useless flourishes that you saw in ordinary dances. Indeed, Finwion guessed that in the dangerous lands of Middle-earth, this skillful series of movements could have slain a host of foes; it might be a dance, but there was a deadly precision to every graceful step.

This, Finwion found himself thinking, is beauty personified. The thought was at once followed by a surge of guilt. So far, he had applied the idea of beauty personified only and exclusively to his mother. But Míriel lay still as a sculpture, her perfect features lifeless and unmoving, too weak to even whisper, hardly strong enough to breathe. Yes, she was beautiful; but Finwion couldn't deny that he much preferred beauty like this, full of life and strength, throbbing with energy. Ashamed of his ponderings, Finwion glanced up at his father to see whether he had guessed any of these disloyal thoughts. But to his relief – and then, his alarm – Finwë was just as captivated by the dancer's performance, watching her movements with longing as if, after years of walking in the dark, he had suddenly glimpsed a ray of light, like in the tales of the Great Journey. Finwion felt his stomach clench with sudden dread, and although the morning was mild and steadily growing warmer, a sense of icy cold settled on him.

The dancer ended her performance, felling a final imaginary opponent and stabbing her spear into the ground with a short, triumphant cry. Then she stood still for a moment, her chest heaving, her eyes closed. When her breath had slowed and she opened her eyes again, she was looking directly at the two of them. Her eyes briefly widened in surprise; then she smiled. Finwion and his father shifted and exchanged a glance, a little embarrassed to have been caught out.

But the dancer did not seem to mind that they had watched her private exercise. She picked up a cloak and hung it loosely over her shoulder, using her spear-staff as a walking-stick as she made her way towards them. She was still smiling, and as she walked, she began to sing. Her voice was keen and strong, and her wordless tune again made Finwion think of a lark, soaring high in the sky or diving abruptly while continuing to sing its melodious song.
Finwë seemed to awaken as from a refreshing sleep, now casting a sheepish look at his young son. „The Vanyar,“ he said in a strangely breathless voice, „were formidable warriors, in the old days. We called them the Spear-Elves, before we came here.“
Finwion, who normally loved to hear stories from the old days in Cuiviénen, gave only a gruff nod.
„They still practice their spear-dances, sometimes,“ Finwë went on, and then fell silent as the woman stopped in front of them.

She bowed politely, bidding them a good day. Finwë, his voice still thick with weariness or awe or Finwion did not care to guess what, inclined his head in turn. „Thank you, and a very good day to you too, my lady Indis,“ he said, and for some reason her smile intensified. Finwion realised that his own lips had crept into a grin in response without him noticing. He was horrified. How dare he smile when his poor mother lay dying? How dare he admire the beauty of this woman's strong limbs when his poor mother had given up her life's strength for his sake? Furious with himself, he forced the corners of his mouth into a grim, thin line, and looked down at his own hands, feeble compared to the firm fingers that gripped her spear.

„She is Indis, the sister of High King Ingwë,“ Finwë told his young son as they made their way back home. Finwion did not raise his head, just giving a curt nod to acknowledge his father's words. Lady Indis, he thought. He would remember that name. For a moment, she had made him forget his poor mother – no, worse, she had made him prefer her vivacious strength to Míriel's cold beauty. He vowed to himself that he would never forgive her for that.

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Chapter End Notes

- Yeah, I'm assuming that this is taking place before Fëanor's essecilme, and also before his skill with forge-craft made itself apparent. Who knows, maybe his observations about gold and strong arms were what made him try his hand at jewellery?

- The idea of Vanyarin spear-dances (which are not to be pictured as pole-dancing, but as a martial arts routine ;)) has been with me for a year and now I finally did something with it. I mean, the Vanyar are called Spear-Elves (in Morgoth's Ring, anyway), and they seem to have done pretty well in the War of Wrath, so I figure they must have kept on practicing even in Valinor. Dancing is totally harmless, right?

- Yeah, actually I just wanted to write Indis doing something interesting and being awesome.