The standard bearer (Elrond x oc)

11. The Dance of Rivals

Elendil's camp had been transformed into something from a fairytale. Hundreds of flickering lamps hung from poles, thick carpets covered the rough ground, gorgeous awnings and pavilions sheltered groaning tables and all around soft music sounded.

"Oh, it is delightful!" exclaimed Galeria, her eyes bright. "Don't you think so?" she peeked round Elrond to catch her friend's eye.

"Oh yes!" Gildinwen's face glowed with happiness, she could almost feel her eyes fill. 'No crying!' She scolded herself, and resorted to an irrepressible grin instead.

"I see some of our friends!" Galeria started forward, dragging the others behind her, "Come! Let us join them!"

Gildinwen felt Elrond's arm slide out from under her hand as Galeria pulled him on, but just as she thought to lose him, she felt his strong hand clasp hers, and the steps with which she followed Galeria's laughing ones seemed to float on the very air itself.

The group of younger Elves had commandeered a large table with a good view. They happily squeezed up to make room for the newcomers and soon everyone was settled and eagerly watching the spectacle unfold.

Elendil stood in front of the top table to greet his guests. He was dressed magnificently, his tunic thickly embroidered with gold, and a crown upon his head. Behind him hung gorgeous tapestries depicting legendary battlescenes, while above a richly appointed canopy glowed with colour. Silence fell as Gil-galad approached. His formal robes blazed with the countless stars of night, his face solemn beneath his simple coronet, his step long and firm and his bearing regal. At his right hand strode the shipwright, Cìrdan, his white hair shining, his face grave.

Once the guests of honour were seated, Elendil's family advanced. Isildur, as the eldest, took precedence, and a gasp was audible as he appeared with the Lady Varadil. Truly she was the most beautiful woman. Her hair like a river of molten sunlight, her skin radiant, her face flawless. She moved with the grace and lightness of a deer, her body supple and waist narrow despite the four sons she had given her lord. A delicate hand rested lightly on Isildur's sword arm, and even the slight distance in her summer-sky eyes served only to enhance her beauty. She was attired in the finest silks, exquisitely sewn with gold and pearls, and arrayed with the finest jewels to be found in Middle Earth. Her husband's face shone with pride and happiness, as he handed her to her place at his father's left hand, then seated himself beside her.

A slight movement caught Gildinwen's eye and she glanced away from the pageant to see a tall, good-looking man, whom she could not quite place, moving round behind the crowd his eye riveted on the Lady Varadil. She nudged Galeria discretely.

"Lord Brithiar," her friend whispered.

Of course, Falcred's companion.

"The Lady Varadil was betrothed to him once," continued Galeria in a low voice, "But she broke it off to marry Isildur. They say he never got over it. Certainly he never married."

"Oh." breathed Gildinwen, "Isildur is his leige-lord, is he not?"

"That is so, and as such Brithiar has no recourse against him. It was considered very bad judgement for Isildur to take the betrothed of one of his vassals, but he could not be persuaded against it."

They hushed again, as Lord Anárion and the Lady Tuiliel stepped up. The younger of Elendil's sons was slightly taller than his brother, his fair hair unruly above keen blue eyes, his chin clean-shaven, his mouth smiling. His wife was shorter, her build shapely, her face rosy and blooming, a mass of chestnut curls spilling down her back. They walked closely together, and when they sat, Anárion held her hand tenderly in his.

The food served was delicious, but Gildinwen could only nibble at it, and even a glass of wine failed to alleviate her dry mouth. Beside her, Elrond reclined indolently in his chair, long limbs loose in a posture of abandonment. His dark hair lay softly against the fair skin of cheek and neck, the elegant tips of his ears parting the fine strands. Sitting here among the talk and laughter of her friends, her head a little giddy from the wine, she knew there was no point in denying it. Her whole body felt like a tinderbox, just one spark was needed to set her alight. Every nerve was taut like a harpstring, just one touch and she would sing out. A song of love, a song of desire.