Atlas, At Last

2. The Man in the Sun

"Please, join us for dinner," Elrond smiled, motioning his friends to walk through an arched corridor. Where the candles did not light the way, sunlight filtered in to illuminate the hallways.

Althea tried to walk with her best posture, chin up as she did to give herself an extra inch. In cities of Gondor, or Rohan, she would at least be of average height among the crowd. But here in Rivendell, she realized that was not the case. Elves towered over her by at least half a foot, and did not even bother to lower their heads when they spoke. They were so intimidating, beautiful, and ready to strike upon provocation. She walked beside her grandfather, ashamed that once again it was his height and status that would raise her eminence. As always, it was her grandfather, Ravion the Light, that would define her as the lithe and willowy elves looked at them with curiosity.

"Are you sure your other guests will not mind? We aren't even dressed for dinner," said Ravion, consciously aware of there being another company. He had been friends with Elrond long enough to know when he ached for a glass of wine and an evening of stories. He mentally filed a few worth guffawing to tell at the table.

"My friend, you are never dressed for dinner," Elrond smiled tiredly.

At the end of the corridor was a faint, merry round of laughter.
They heard the words ring down the hall...

"That the Man in the Moon himself
came down one night to drink his fill."

Elrond hesitated, furrowing his brows and cocked his head to the side, "And well, we have accommodated them so generously to where our other guests shouldn't mind-"

The merry-making grew louder and louder, and there was a symphony of thumping, banging, and clanging of mugs. The patient Elven host closed his eyes, inhaling through his nose deeply and let out an exasperated sigh.

"The ostler has a tipsy cat
that plays a five-stringed fiddle;
And up and down he saws his bow"

They finally got a set of steps when splat!
.. something sticky and creamy darted through the air and landed on a stone pillar, inches from the left of Elrond's face, behind them.

"I am so terribly sorry, I-" Elrond's eyes widened with embarrassment, and whirled around to apologize, "It was a mistake of me to invite you to dinner with the other company. If you would like to settle in first, we can arrange another supper for you two by the balcony after your baths and-"

There were two tables of singing dwarves, with lettuce leaves drenched in spilled wine and ale sprawled all over the once beautiful silk cloth. Rolls of bread flew in every direction, and there was a great deal of stomping and yelling. Spoons, forks, and knives were used to drum and pound against the wooden surfaces.

One dwarf in a large, brown furry hat jumped and danced on the tables- the ear flaps flopped rhythmically as they sang:

"Now squeaking high,
now purring low,
now sawing in the middle!"

A roll of bread bounced away from the tables, down a couple stairs, and landed in front of Ravion's feet. Elrond shriveled in dread. Of all days his old friend decided to visit, it was an evening of whence he housed the rowdiest guests Rivendell had ever taken. He closed his eyes, resisting the urge to hold his head in distress.

A deeper, older voice broke through the dwarvish ruckus and sang in a rich vibrato:

"So the cat on the fiddle played

hey-diddle-diddle!

a jig that would wake the dead"

Ravion had grabbed the roll of bread, chucked it in no direction what-so-ever and knocked over an Elf maid's flute. She gasped as the instrument was smacked out of her hands, and everyone watched the roll of bread ricochet off and push a small harp out of the lap of an Elf man. Everything went silent, with the exception of a set of boots thumping rhythmically on the ground. All eyes looked towards the only moving being in the room: Great Ravion the Light.

Elrond and Althea looked at Ravion in horror, then glanced around at the other guests fervently. Elrond only pursed his lips in disapproval, secretly dying inside. And it was Althea whose cheeks grew visibly red and warm. She touched her face, flustered, as if her hands could cover up the shame her grandfather bestowed upon their family lineage for all ages of time to come. Of course, sitting at the table of honor were none other than Gandalf the Grey (whose mouth was slightly hanging in surprise and mid scoop of broth) and- was it really? Oh no, oh no- Thorin Oakenshield: son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King under the mountain, looking quite unamused and a little bit angry at the rude barging in of their dinner.

Some dwarves resumed and broke into another cloud of ruckus, continuing their food fight and yelling. The older ones glanced at each other disapprovingly.

The dwarf on the dinner table jumped down and patted Ravion on the lower back, nodding and smiling cheerfully, inviting him to the festivities. And together, they roared musically,

"He squeaked and sawed and quickened the tune,
While the landlord shook the Man in the Moon:
'It's after three!' he said."

Re-engaged in the merry making, some dwarves thrust their drinks in the air, shouting gleefully and welcoming the newcomer.

"Bofur!" The dwarf yelled, trying to alleviate his introduction above all the noise extending his short arm out to the man.
"Ravion!" The man shook Bofur's hand furiously in delight. Finally, a jolly bunch who knows how to celebrate!

Bofur's face furrowed quizzically, and squinted at the man's face. How peculiar, how familiar, how similar to- AH! Before he could blurt anything, Ravion nodded at him and approached the table where the greater guests of honor sat.

Bofur stared quietly at his back in admiration, shyly taken aback. He fell deep into his thoughts, and the others were too busily engaged in noisy affairs to care about the newcomer.

The red faded away from Althea's cheeks when she witnessed the uncharacteristic silent demeanor that graced the uproarious dwarf who was just dancing on the tables not long ago. Her hand withdrew from her face as she immediately recognized the expression she had seen one too many times.

"It is awe," Althea said out loud, seeing that Elrond was watching Bofur's reaction too.
"Pardon?" said Elrond, snapping out of his own bemusement.
"They look at my grandfather in awe," She repeated, never looking away from Bofur.

"People will look to you the same," Elrond smiled, and redirected his gaze to the other table. He saw Gandalf's face registering who the surprise guest was, and the moment it clicked, the wizard smirked and tipped his head in cordially. Thorin, on the other hand, had a stern and resentful expression, as if he were ready to lecture the man on manners and respect. However, Thorin's face softened after Ravion introduced himself, and knelt before the dwarven king- his face, tilted downwards in great regards.

Thorin placed his hand on Ravion's shoulder, insisting that they meet each other eye to eye. The King of the Mountain mouthed something inaudible to everyone else but Gandalf, who reacted by raising his eyebrows and puffing his pipe in enjoyment.

"I can only hope to garner half the respect he has earned throughout his lifetime," Althea sighed, and smiled, shaking her head and ready to accept the fact she would never be as popular as Ravion. A little frown besmirched her beam, though, and it was enough for Elrond to pick up.

He looked at her seriously, and back at the radiance of her grandfather- who, ah, how curious, managed to make Thorin Oakenshield grin. Yes, what a legacy Ravion had created for himself..

"You are not one to live in his shadow," Elrond said quietly.
"Thank you," Althea nodded, hoping to quickly dismiss their conversation. She had heard that line too many times for it to provide any consolation to her.

Because one cannot have shadows unless they stand in the sun. And he is but Ravion the Light.