Stepping into the grove where Melian stood was like diving into a pool of shining power; it was why Thingol loved her so. One of the reasons, at any rate. She turned, seeming surprised, and he was taken again by how well she pretended to be less than she was. Kneeling and kissing her hand in greeting, he smiled up into her radiant eyes. "Did it go well at the festival? Will they help?" she asked, voice low and sweet as a dove's call.
"Yes," he murmured. "Quite well." He settled himself on the earth, peering into the rippling waters of the tiny stream that passed through the grove.
"How did you convince them to help us?" She asked, moving to sit beside him on the bank. He took a moment to listen; sometimes Ulmo spoke through the waters there, though not often. "They bear no great love for your... for our kind," she said, face solemn before giggling. He laughed too, knowing she had made the mistake for his amusement.
"Why, by being clever, of course," he smiled. "And charming."
"Of course," she smiled back. And if her grin was a bit knowing... well, he could live with that. "They will provide us with the weapons we desperately need, though, and that is no small thing."
"Will ye not dance?" Thingol glanced down at the figure in front of him. The king of Belegost was far shorter than an elf, though as broad across the shoulders as one to be sure. The elf knew well that his cousins did not particularly like the children of Aulë, but yet there was something about them that Thingol found charming in spite of himself. They were so terribly direct, which was different than all his own kin from Aman or Arda alike. You never wondered where you stood with them, and that was worth a great deal.
"I do not know the steps," he replied courteously. A loud snort was the only response. Two lines of dwarves faced each other in the great hall, and they moved like one of their own machines - each leap, kick and gesture was made in perfect time by each line, though the movements were mirrored so that when one line raised their right arm, the other raised their left, then the sides whirled through each other in some complicated formation and the sides had reversed. "It is a complicated dance, but I admire it for its elegance."
"Elegance?" King Mûkhal laughed. "Aye, I suppose so. Hardly like the traipsing around I've seen your own courtiers doing. But come, 'tis the festival of Azaghâl's Awakening! All must dance. It's the rules." Thingol sighed soundlessly but stood. The king's glance revealed his surprise, but his face split with a wide grin.
"I shall trust you to guide me, then." An hour later, as he sprawled bonelessly in a chair sipping at a welcome tankard of clear water, he sighed again, and this time more loudly. "I do not think that I did your dance justice. Perhaps I am not the right height." The elders had abandoned the dance floor. What had been elegant and measured was now being imitated rather poorly by younger dwarves. Thingol didn't suppose it was appropriate to judge their skill since he had fared so poorly himself, but he still thought that most of them had more enthusiasm than ability.
"Noo," Mûkhal said, looking upward and biting his lips to hide a smile, "seems you're a bit tall to match the line, 'tis true." Suddenly he burst out laughing. "Ach, my friend, you tried, though, that's the thing! Most of your own kin would rather have died than get up and leap around so, but you did it to be polite. It didn't go unnoticed, I promise you that. The dwarves of Gabilgathol are your friends for many reasons, but that's not least among them. You respect us where many do not." He turned, watching the younger dwarves try to dance. "Unrig, sit down, lad! That ain't dancin'. that's havin' a fit! You look like a sack full of arseholes slidin' off a chair!" Thingol spit his water without meaning to. That, he had to confess, was another reason he enjoyed the dwarves; one never knew exactly what they might say.
"Is this festival held every year?" He asked, ignoring the triumphant grin aimed at him and dodging the piece of bread that was flung in their direction by a very drunk young dwarf indeed.
"Aye, so it is," the king replied, hurling the bread back without looking. "Our kin in Khazad-Dûm call it Durin's Day, but that's because they're so far up their own arses they see through their navels. All the dwarves celebrate it - it's when the Eldest awoke from sleep under the mountains. I wouldn't tell you this, mind, except you were named a dwarf-friend by my own dear grandda." He sobered for a moment, looking out across the room, and Thingol wondered what exactly the dwarf was thinking. "I know why ye've come, o' course. It weren't to dance or sing or any o' that. But ye'll have your weapons, elf-king. Seems to me we're all in this together." As Thingol opened his mouth to offer his thanks, the dwarf stood again. "But enough serious talk for tonight! Have ye ever had proper dwarvish ale?" Oh dear, Thingol thought. I hope the dancing was the worst indignity of the evening. In spite of his desires, though, somehow he knew that wasn't likely to be the case.
