“We thought to have a celebration under the stars,” Danel said to the small assembly of elves. “Filgnil has placed food and drink on a table by the lake. This way.” She walked away, the dew-covered grass dampening her trailing skirts. Estarfin made no move to follow; instead, he fixed a heavy gaze on Parnard.
“We still need to speak of this man,” he said.
A cold weight settled in Parnard’s chest. The moment he feared had come: he was now forced to account for his silence regarding the brigand Naraal, who had lurked like a shadow just beyond the borders of Númenstáya, spying on them, hoping to catch a glimpse of Danel. That is because the man was desperate, he realized. It was presumptuous of him, but, he supposed, Naraal could not help himself–Danel was very fair to look upon. Parnard found himself lingering on that fact far longer than he would ever care to admit. Yet what captivated the mortal was her beauty, and nothing else.
“We shall speak of whatever you like, Estarfin friend,” he suggested timidly.
To his surprise, Estarfin smiled. “Not tonight. Come, let us share a glass or two of wine.”
He was granted a reprieve! The weight lifted from his chest and he sang out with more than usual exuberance, “There is wine a-plenty, to be certain! We must celebrate this most joyous occasion - just look at the size of that roast chicken!” Then he rushed off to help Marawendi, who was setting plates upon the tablecloth, before Estarfin could change his mind. The Noldo was inconstant in mood, and there was no telling how long his sanguinity would last; still, Parnard thought with an inward sigh of relief, Danel would surely be foremost in his thoughts on his wedding night.
During this brief exchange she stood amidst the ferns, a sudden doubt flickering through her mind as to whether she was overdressed for an outdoor feast, and if she should change her clothing. At her request Parnard had adorned her silk gown with meandering, fruit-bearing vines in silver and gold. The intricate embroidery caught the moon’s glow and shimmered with every breath. Realizing the elves deferred to her, and unwilling to delay the merrymaking, she moved to a nearby chair and seated herself with practiced grace, her skirts gathering around her with a rich, metallic rustle.
Once the elves were settled around the table and wine was poured, Danel allowed herself a long, quiet breath. She stared at the simple silver band on her finger, smiling as she recalled the vows underneath the myrtle trees. The ring was forged from a precious fragment of a comb once owned by Estarfin’s mother. “The ceremony was steeped in tradition, yet we made it ours,” she mused. She looked up, her eyes bright with the memory of the rites they had just completed. “Parnard, did our wedding ceremony differ greatly from those of Greenwood?”
He hesitated, his Dwarf-steel eating knife poised just above the golden crust of a pastry-wrapped pork loin. While he seemed to be weighing his memories with care, the answer he offered was far from what Danel had anticipated. “Your wedding is the first I have ever attended; my family lived in a remote corner of the forest near the mountains, far away from most other Elves, in a dark, distant cave. Then we left that place, and moved a little ways up the river, where we built a hut close by the Halls of the King, but not so close as to receive any invitations.”
“Is that the river in Greenwood that sends folk to sleep?” Fearanë asked Marawendi.
“Yes. There is only one river,” replied her friend. She was dressed in a simple sleeveless pearl-grey dress for the occasion, her face framed by carefully styled ringlets.
“No, little flower,” Parnard said with a gentle smile. “There are two main tributaries that run through Greenwood: the Celduin and the dark Gûlduin. Numerous small streams flow from these, which one can mistake for a river, if not careful; and there are many hidden paths along both rivers that may lead to one’s doom.”
“I remember being near the Gûlduin,” Fearanë said with a shudder, drawing surprised looks from the others. “In a nightmare,” she finally admitted.
Filignil, the chief cook and housekeeper, narrowed her eyes, her lips setting into a thin line of disapproval. “Dark places and nightmares should not be spoken of this day.”
“I quite agree,” Danel told them, and steered the conversation back to its original subject. “While the customs of Greenwood are undoubtedly a little different from our own, they surely spring from the same general traditions. Do not all elves, regardless of realm, call upon Eru to bear witness, after all?”
Parnard’s face went blank; he shook his head and quietly admitted that he did not know. The idea of invoking the Powers on High to oversee a wedding was a concept entirely foreign to him. Naturally, elves, stars, trees, moon and water were not witnesses enough for these Noldor, he thought. It must be another tradition the Deep Elves brought out of the West. He shivered. Only once had he invoked Tintallë, and that was in an hour of greatest need.
Despite his sleek plum-colored velvet suit trimmed with silver spangles, frilled shirt, and fine manners, he remained the same elf he ever was - a mere rustic from the wild fringes of the world. Parnard squared his shoulders. No, he was no longer a mere rustic, the second son of an itinerant cheesemaker perpetually scrambling to feed his family: was he not a Lord in his own right, walking the high galleries of Imladris among the very Wise? After years spent at their side, did the Noldor not look upon him with such fondness that they now called him ‘Cousin’? Indeed, they had come to cherish him so deeply that they had adorned him in their own splendor - bestowing upon him a finely wrought sword, armor fit for a Prince of the Eldar, and jewels that glittered as if they held the starlight. And had he not earned a special kind of grace through his close proximity to the Noldor’s greatness, and by his unwavering friendship and service? If light is borrowed, or reflected, is it any less real? He struggled to cast off his lingering self-doubt, reminding himself that he was in the company of some of the mightiest and noblest Elves of the Age – a station few of his kind could ever dream of – yet it sometimes felt like a garment that did not quite fit.
“Well, we have two young maids among us now. Soon they may have their own weddings and their own ideas for them,” Danel was saying.
“They are over-young for that,” interjected Filignil.
“Marriage?” Fearanë, the younger of the two maidens, made a face. “Not for me! I want to be a warrior.”
“War will come soon enough,” Estarfin muttered.
The joy in Danel’s eyes dimmed a little. “I know, but dear one, may we refrain from speaking of it tonight?'
“My apologies.”
She leaned close and kissed him on the cheek. “There is no need to apologize, meldanya. We all know we must be prepared.”
Estarfin’s serious look dissolved into a grin. He nudged Parnard, drawing him out of his brooding silence. “If you are to marry, I would advise that you do not wait as long as we did.”
“Oh, you cannot hurry love,” he said with a laugh. Then his knife moved like lightning. He stabbed at pork and chicken, added fillets of crisp-fried fish and pickled vegetables, topping the heap on his plate with a blueberry tartlet, and began to feast.
Danel smiled. “We had little choice in the matter, did we not, Estarfin? I would we had wed before six thousand years passed us by.”
“Six thousand years!” gasped the two maidens.
“I shall be in Valinor long before then,” asserted Fearanë.
Estarfin turned to stare at her, his brow furrowed. “All are free to choose their own path.”
Danel did not join in the talk of Valinor. Her path was decided. She reached out, laying her hand over his to draw his attention back to her. “Meldanya, there is something on my mind that I would speak with you about. It concerns our betrothal rings. I...I do not want you to misunderstand, but I feel real sorrow at losing mine so soon.” The wedding band gleamed on her finger. “This ring is special to me. But the betrothal ring is also special.”
“What is your wish?”
“I know it is not custom, but we are very old, and - I think it would be acceptable to do as we wish. Must we return the betrothal rings to one another?” He poured another glass of wine. “Both rings are most special to me,” she emphasized. “What I suggest is not strictly our tradition, I know it.” She bowed her head and waited patiently for his reply.
Estarfin cleared his throat, his voice adopting the husky tone of a long-buried memory. “‘Do not wear the promise once the vow is made, my child,’” he murmured.
“Oh.” She sat back, wineglass in hand, and stared at the sky.
“Why is that?” he wondered aloud. “Are not the promise and the vow one? In most cases, at least, unless the betrothal is broken.” Such an event was rare for Elves, yet it had happened to Parnard. Whether the Wood-elf truly heard, or if the weight of the words simply failed to pierce his focus, he gave no sign. Instead, he continued eating the fare heartily and in silence, other than making occasional small murmurs of delight over this or that dish.
Marawendi gestured to the quickly vanishing strawberry parfait and whispered in Fearanë’s ear, “That was made from the remnants of a cake I baked last night. I found Lord Parnard in the pantry eating it.”
“It makes sense,” Danel finally conceded. “The betrothal is the promise, the wedding, the fulfillment. But as you say, meldanya, in truth, they are two ends of a circle. Could it bring ill fortune to wear both rings?” Estarfin shook his head. “They are very special to me,” she repeated again.
The Noldo took Danel's hand in his, and speaking in Quenya said, “If the world be rent asunder and thou shouldst stand before my mother, her heart shall surely fill with vexation to behold two rings gracing thy finger.”
Danel burst out laughing. “Thy mother shall diveneth, I deem, that each band finds its source in thee alone. And when the world is broken and remade, I yearn to stand once more within the presence of thy kin.”
Although he did not understand their speech Parnard laughed along with the Noldor, and having eaten his fill - at least for a while - and overflowing with merriment, he leapt to his feet, and cried out, “We have wine in our cups, and food on our plates, but no music in our ears!” At his behest Filignil brought out her old, little-used harp. She strummed it slowly, her fingers tentatively seeking familiar chords. He waited for her to find her rhythm, then, raising his face to the sky, began to sing in a lofting tenor.
Hearken good folk and lend an ear
Parnard the bard, for all to cheer
Will sing a lay of love and light
To Elves in shining raiment dight
The Lady was a fire-kissed dream
Who dwelt beside a long-lost stream
Her hair a net of crimson light
A burning beam in starlit night
In noble halls her roots were found
She walked in grace, her hair unbound
With all the grandeur of a queen
The fairest lady ever seen
Now from the forges deep and low
Where fiery furnaces did glow
A Noldo came with sinew strong
To strike the iron and right the wrong
His hair was dark as raven’s wing
No lighter spirit did he bring
He shaped the steel with hammer’s art
And to the blade his soul impart
And oh! His spear, a deadly thing
To foes of Eldar it would bring
A sudden end, a final rest
By hammer wrought, it passed the test
With edge so sharp and gleam so bright
A beacon in the darkest night
They met where frigid waters ran
Beneath the pines and love began
The flame-haired maid and elf of steel
A growing bond their hearts did feel
A steady pull, a binding thread
By starlight spun far overhead
The shadows danced in evening light
Beneath the stars of silver white
Their glances met and words were few
A love unspoken, strong and true
And in their souls a kindred fire
Was fed by Love’s eternal pyre
She saw his strength of hand and eye
Beneath the vast and watchful sky
He saw the flame, the noble grace
Reflected in her lovely face
No words of love did they require
No spoken vows to feed the fire
A silent promise they did keep
Beneath Mount Rerir, cold and steep
There walked the smith and Lady fair
A noble and a fearless pair
The Noldo strong, the Lady bright
A blur of shadow and of light
With hammer’s song and silken gown
While ancient stars were shining down
So raise a glass to love so bold
And all the stories that are told
Now let the song of elves resound
Let Parnard’s voice on breezes bound
And spread the tale, both far and wide
Of elven love and Noldor pride
To the music of the harp and his voice, the Elven folk rose in a shimmering kaleidoscope of color and danced around in a swift circle, beating light feet upon the ground. Garlands of wildflowers adorned their flowing hair, and the two maidens wore glittering silver belts that cinched their dresses around their slender waists. Amidst the dancing many tender, amorous glances passed between the bride and groom; leaning their heads close, they smiled as though they shared some pleasant secret, lost to all but each other in bliss.
