here we go again by lonelyvisitor  

'cause somewhere in the crowd there's you

“Good evening, Ellairë!” Finrod clomped up to the dais, voluminous sleeves spread wide. “Greetings, honored guests, beloved family. Holy matrimony! What could be a happier occasion.”

Yet happiness was no longer the prevailing feeling in the courtyard. An uneasy silence had spread, punctuated by murmured cries of recognition as people began to perceive the third and fifth sons of Fëanor beneath all the frilly ornament. For the umpteenth time today Orodreth felt dizzy with dread, his sight swimming with flecks of white light—but no, that was Gwindor hefting up the disco-ball, that distinctly Fëanorian invention, while Celeborn looked on in horror.

“Ah.” Beneath his spotlight, Finrod smiled chastisingly toward Curufin and Celegorm. “Perhaps you are wondering why I am accompanied by my villainous kinsmen. Weddings are awkward, aren’t they? All those estrangements and rifts and feuds we’d rather not contend with in these blessed lands—and suddenly we’re thrown together for crudités!”

Making an irreverent little gesture he looked at Elwing, who stood now at the edge of the crowd. Elrond had come to his mother’s side, as if staying her from flying off. But she had not turned into a bird yet: only her eyes had gone aquiline, gold, graven, and piercing as those of Gwaihir the Windlord.

Uneasily Orodreth remembered the enchantment carried in his uncle’s voice, and feared it stayed him too, for he felt powerless to stop the proceedings.

Finrod clasped his hands. “Let us break the ice in song, shall we? Here’s one we used to sing in the camps of the War of Wrath. Or I did, I suppose these two were dead—and deservingly so!—but they’ve gotten up to speed, for the subject is one dear to all of our hearts. Hit it, boys.”

At the command Celegorm snapped into an architectural pose framing Finrod, and Curufin followed an uncertain beat behind his brother.

Then in voices surprisingly sweet and clear, they began an unaccompanied duet.

The Star of Radiance shines on the horizon Burning bright and fell
Lit like Varda’s wells
Guided by Eärendil

Music struck in from somewhere as Finrod took up the verse in a tranquil mezzo-soprano.

You were sick and tired of the war
And the endless assault of Angband
The son of Tuor sought the distant shore
Asked the Valar to make a last stand
We imagine you were glad to see us coming
In our swan-ships rigged in might
And we’ll all take heart and comfort when he sails the skies tonight

Background choreography continued as he sang, indicating seeking, rigging, sailing, et cetera —Orodreth had forgotten that Celegorm was a lauded dancer in his youth, attendant as he had been to the Huntsman’s rites. Curufin did his best to keep up, and seemed reassured by the return of the chorus:

The Star of Radiance shines on the horizon
Work of Fëanor’s hand
(Silmaril, silmaril) (This was Celegorm, singing contrabass.) 
Hallowed treelight, sand
(Silmaril, silmaril)
His sons bound by their oath they stand

Tonight the Star of Radiance shines on the horizon Burning bright and fell
(Silmaril, silmaril)
Lit like Varda’s wells
(Silmaril, silmaril) Guided by Eärendil

Of course Finrod was having his way with the audience; he always did. Toes were tapping, and a convivial atmosphere had resumed. It didn’t seem all bad, Orodreth thought. Though Gil-galad cast a bemused look back at him, he had not stopped smiling, and unlike the day’s earlier confrontation it did not seem as if a brawl might break out at any moment.

In any case Orodreth did not want to be in the middle of things again should the situation evolve, not when he had another errand.

He melted into the crowd in search of Celebrimbor.

Back turned as to display the tight fit of his trousers, Finrod sang over a spangled shoulder with lashes batting.

Morgoth crowned with Fëanor’s stolen stones 
That had brought grace and doom on our people
Lúthien danced before the Enemy’s throne
Beren’s hand was lost, but that brightness was taken from evil
And so the silmaril was passed on through the living line of Melian 
Though those brothers tried their best
And it’s as Sirion was burning that the jewel was carried west

This last word was accompanied by a dramatic sweep of sleeves towards the mainland. By the breakdown into the chorus the singers had achieved a seeming mastery of the space: guests were clapping and harmonizing and supplementing Celegorm on his chanted refrain of silmaril.

As bodies shifted around him Orodreth found himself lost, and moreover in exactly the position he had wished to avoid: proximity to Elwing, and to Finrod, who was suddenly weaving his way toward her with beseeching reverence, a hand held out as if to offer a dance.

There on that cliff
Her fate took flight
To Ulmo’s hands, the holy jewel, she made her plight 
In white gull’s form
Borne o’er the waves
By Elwing was all Beleriand brought aid

In the course of singing this Finrod had managed to persuade his song-subject into his choreography. After the first startled twirl Elwing looked skeptical, but not scandalized, and by the end of the bridge she had become the leading dance-partner, dipping Finrod low as he flourished on aid.

As if on cue, the crystal lanterns all exhausted—indeed Gwindor must have been in on the lighting design. For it was this moment that revealed Gil-Estel had risen high above the courtyard, the brightest star in the heavens twinkling in violet dusk as it had every night for nearly seven thousand years.

The Star of Radiance shines on the horizon—

In the twilight, Elwing grinned. The beat dropped, the lights flashed, and the crowd went absolutely wild.

Tonight the Star of Radiance shines on the horizon 
Burning bright and fell
(Silmaril, silmaril)
Lit like Varda’s wells
(Silmaril, silmaril) Guided by Eärendil

Finrod had returned to the stage divested of much of his costume, which people had been grabbing at for souvenirs—indeed it seemed made for this purpose—and now lead the band in jubilant coda.

Guided by Eärendil
Guided by Eär...endil
(The Star of Radiance shines on the horizon...!)

A thunderous applause went up, shouts of encore, flowers and hair-ribbons floating toward the stage. Finrod was bowing profusely, and Curufin with an absent stare, beholding his glowing cousin with an unguarded awe not unlike that which he had displayed before his long-lost son. Celegorm was flexing his arms so hard he’d torn the flimsy fabric of his upper sleeves.

One slow clap drew power from all the others. Elrond came forth, looking like a white peacock with his ornamental braids and train—and this only the first of his wedding ensembles.

A hush passed over the guests as they began to realize the performers had not obtained the advance permission of the bride.

“Thank you, Uncle,” Elrond addressed only Finrod, with a courtesy undermined by his fierce gaze. “More gracious songs of my house have been sung to me before, but that was not as tasteless as it might have been. Though it was my impression that your accompanists had been consigned to the scullery, and out of our sights.”

Finrod dipped his golden head. “And consigned they shall be swiftly. Know only that I sing for love and memory of your great-grandparents, may the Lady Lúthien and her Beren walk together forever beyond the borders of Arda—”

A great shadow was cast presently above the party. In gull-shape Elwing swooped over the stage, darting toward the skies to seek her husband. Though not before bequeathing a parting gift of birdshit: not a little reserved for Finrod, though Celegorm and Curufin remained her principal targets.

“Ha!” Finrod blew a soiled braid off of his face as his cousins groused behind him; he raised a drink he’d been passed by some admirer. “I suppose I’d better keep things brief, then. To you, Lord Elrond, and to my niece Celebrían and my grand-nephew Rodnor. May this consummation be a blesséd one—for us all!”

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