Devotion and Desertion @russingon-week day two
Plus (Gen Rated) drabble below. Or read it on Ao3
Sanskrit: Svayaṃvara -> english: self choice -> Quenya: self - immo, choice - cilmë, wedding - vestalë -> imcilmë vestalë
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It comes as no surprise to anyone that Turukáno garlands Elenwë of the Vanyar at the Imcilmë Vestalë. They have been courting for several years, a slow pace by the reckoning of the Eldar.
Russandol wanders the hall, his garland of needleflower and hibiscus almost invisible against his red attire. It does not invite speculation. Still, the speculation is inevitable for any noble of age, even some not yet of age are eyed as viable prospects for an alliance.
His brothers are similarly attempting to blend in, except for Kanafinwë who, of course, has fashioned a garland entirely of jasmine and gold beads, as though he intends to make a match of a Vanya himself. It is a bold statement, even for him.
Fëanáro destains the tradition, despite choosing Nerdanel at his very first Imcilmë Vestalë and causing a massive argument among the suitors by avoiding all the appropriate selections. Tales of him veering past the many assembled nobles to place his garland over the head of a simple smith’s daughter still inspire songs, as do tales of Nerdanel weaving a magic gown to enchant him, or answering Manwë’s riddles to attend the Imcilmë Vestalë.
Within her own household it is well known that Fëanáro invited her there himself and was perfectly clear with his intentions, but that does not make for entertaining songs.
Fëanáro's sons have grown all too used to hearing a familiar tune hummed by hopeful maidens as they pass by, as the Valimar guards have grown all too used to plucking the uninvited from the high walls of the great hall during a festival.
Findekáno finds him in the crowd, his arm slipping around Russo’s waist, his head falling against his shoulder. He brings with him a strong scent of flowers, almost enough to cloak his own honey-wax and leather scent.
How Maitimo wishes they could be in the stables instead, saddling the horses for a long ride over Túna’s low hills, to sleep on bedrolls under the light of Telperion away from courtly rules and taboos. Instead it will be feasting and singing and every cousin and sibling wandering in and out of each other’s rooms in the Vanyarin palace with no space for smuggled kisses and hidden caresses. Not to begin to speak of Ainur lingering around every corner.
‘No one catch your eye, cousin?’ Findekáno jests. He might have been taken for sincere by anyone else but his bedmate.
‘Alas, my heart remains with my family,’ Russandol dares to laugh and loops his own arm over Findekáno’s shoulder. ‘Are you so weary already?’
His garland is plush with hydrangeas and delphiniums, dotted with striking passionflowers and beaded with lapis lazuli at the back. Russo plucks at a bead and Finno swats his hand away before he can crush the delicate flowers further.
‘Turukáno has absorbed all the energy for his own celebration.’
‘My congratulations to your household.’
‘Oh yes, thank you, we receive them very gladly indeed.’ Findekáno fakes a yawn. ‘Is it over with yet? I need a drink.’
Intoxicants are not allowed at the Imcilmë Vestalë, as the choice is meant to be uninfluenced. As though that stops families from forcing together a desired match until they cave to the pressure.
‘Soon enough now.’ Russo presses a kiss to the side of his forehead and reaches out his free hand to spin Írissë as she passes in a smiling blur of white and blue.
‘You know, I heard talk of matching the pair of you.’ Finno looks up at him slyly.
‘Me? With Írissë? Ridiculous.’
‘I’m quite serious; I believe the reasoning was an alliance to soothe the warring Noldor families.’
‘Turcafinwë will be glad to hear the attention has lifted from him.’
‘Not all; they want him with young Artanis.’
Russo chokes on air, and has to let go Findekáno entirely for how hard he is laughing, doubled over with mirth, tears in his eyes.
Recognising his brother drawing near he straightens and gestures him over to join the nonsense.
‘Makalaurë, come here, you must know of the awful scheming Finno has overheard!’
———
After the Imcilmë Vestalë the attendees walk out to Ezellohar to sing by the Trees and get, very necessarily, drunk.
Findaráto and Kanafinwë have already managed to procure several bottles and try to entourage him to join taunting the newly engaged couple with the bawdiest songs they can invent.
But Russandol demurs, though he steals a bottle from them, and goes to seek out Findekáno, who was parted from him in the merriment.
The bright lights of Valimar fade away into the peace of Lorien, the long tresses of the willow trees blowing in a gentle breeze, the tranquil lake beyond.
Findekáno stands looking out over the water, braids hanging black and gold down his back. Under the silver light he glows with warmth.
His garland lies discarded on a nearby bench.
‘You knew to find me here,’ Findekáno says, the smile obvious in his voice before he turns and casts its full radiance upon Russo.
‘You know I dislike the crowds.’
He uncorks the purloined bottle and refills the empty goblet Finno holds out to him.
They sit and share the miruvórë as they have a hundred times before.
Findekáno’s fingers are warm, the wine cool and Russandol feels himself suddenly overwhelmed with affection.
His garland is off his neck and in his hands, held out to garland Finno, before he has fully thought it through.
‘I may not yet declare it before the gods and our families, but know that my heart’s choice is and always will be you.’ He confesses, more earnest than he means to be.
‘Oh, Russo, I’m devastated,’ But Findekáno’s eyes shine with affection and with mirth. ‘You beat me to it!’
He lifts his own garland from beside him and offers it out haplessly.
Russo scoffs at his antics.
He garlands Finno and ducks his head in return and to his surprise feels a tear trace his cheek.
On close examination he realises that nestled in the all the blue flowers, in the joints of the garland are uncut rubies. Ah, so Findekáno had planned it as he made it, and Russo simply stumbled upon the idea in the moment. How unlike each of them.
‘I’m not so upset as that!’ Finno laughs, his hands cupping Russo’s face.
‘It’s happiness, fool.’ Russo growls, unable to sound as harsh as he wishes when his chest is so full of love.
‘Fool you’d wed.’ Finno grins and kisses him.
