As she watched the courtiers moving about, Haleth was struck by the dearth of men.  Of those who had marched off to Middle-earth barely a handful had come home.  Even fewer of those who had experienced bodily death in the Elder Days had returned from Mandos.  It left a very large population of single women and ensured that any unmarried man who did find himself in Tirion was the centre of a great deal of feminine attention. There was Ecthelion, speaking to Lady Anairë while a crowd of beautiful maidens stood at a respectful distance, patiently waiting for him to acknowledge them. 

Haleth twisted her silver ring and wished the evening would end.

‘Good evening.’

The Sindarin greeting caught her by surprise.  Only by supreme effort did she not leap to her feet and whirl around. 

‘Hello, Inglor,’ she said, fighting a losing battle to keep the lopsided, miserable grin off her face.  ‘Would you care to join me?’

He gracefully lowered himself beside her.

‘You look well,’ Inglor said quietly.

‘You don’t,’ Haleth thought, taking in his tired, drawn expression and wondering what was troubling him. Her face betrayed her thoughts.

‘I trust you are enjoying life in Tirion?’ he asked stiffly.

Haleth narrowed her eyes and considered asking why she should enjoy it when he plainly did not.  But a direct approach never worked with Inglor.  It was time to try an indirect method. She would fail miserably the first thousand years, but if she was patient and kept trying, after a few millennia she might get the better of him. 

‘It is certainly more comfortable that it was on Middle-earth. Not nearly as interesting, but far more comfortable,’ she said.

The shadow of a frown crossed Inglor’s face. 

‘How have you been keeping yourself occupied?’ he asked.

‘Lady Anairë has been gracious enough to try to teach me how to weave,’ said Haleth.  She did not add that it had been an exercise in futility and frustration.  The experience had been all the worse under Lady Anairë’s patient but puzzled tutelage. Haleth guessed her ancestress wondered how any descendant of hers could be so hopelessly maladroit.

‘Did you enjoy your outing with Ecthelion?’ he asked.

The image of distant isle of Numenor rose unexpectedly in her mind followed by a tide of homesickness that threatened to pull her under. ‘It…was…fine’ she finally managed.   

Inglor regarded her from the corner of his eye, one eyebrow raised in question.

‘I wish you had been there,’ she said gruffly.  ‘I miss you, Inglor.’

Haleth frowned; she had sounded weak and needy, but for the first time since he had sat down Inglor looked at her directly, a weary smile on his face.

‘Nothing would please me more than to be in your company, but I have neglected my duties for a great deal of time.’

‘There seems to be a great deal of state business in Tirion.  Lady Anairë is often occupied with it,’ said Haleth.  ‘She constantly has visitors. I’m fairly certain most population of Tirion had passed through her doors in since I’ve arrived.’ 

‘Lady Anairë is an invaluable aid to the King.  The people, by and large, tend to themselves but occasionally there is need of mediation,’ said Inglor.

Haleth drew a deep breath and bit her tongue. It would take more than a little mediation to overcome any disagreement involving the Noldor.

‘The King does his best, but the demand can be larger than the time he has available.  His immediate family helps with the smaller disputes but we are so few.’  He stopped.  ‘It might have been overwhelming, especially in the early years of his reign, but for Lady Anairë and Lady Nerdanel.’

‘Where is the Lady Nerdanel?’ asked Haleth. Until this instant she had neither seen nor heard mention of Fëanor’s wife.

To her surprise, Inglor switched his gaze to the toes of his boots.  He looked as uncomfortable as she had ever seen him.

‘The Lady Nerdanel is with her father’s people in the house of Aulë,’ he said quietly.

There was something wrong, something shameful behind this admission.  Although Inglor had not told her anything of the situation Haleth thought she could guess the reason for it.  Nerdanel was the wife of Fëanor.  He and his sons – her sons -- had sworn an unspeakable oath, slaughtered the Teleri and led the Noldor to ruin.  No matter how she might labour to make amends, she would be guilty by association.  Haleth ground her teeth in frustrated sympathy. 

The conversation would only lead to a disagreement.  Swallowing the bitterness at the back of her throat, Haleth cast about for another, less inflammatory topic of discussion.

Lady Anairë was standing at the opposite side of the room, still speaking to Ecthelion. 

‘I’ve often wondered why Lady Anairë never remarried,’ Haleth said.

That certainly captured Inglor’s full attention.  He was staring at her as though she had just suggested they dance naked before Finarfin’s court.

‘I beg your pardon?’ he sputtered.

‘I’ve wondered why Lady Anairë never remarried,’ Haleth repeated, simultaneously amused, irritated and curious about his reaction.  ‘It certainly was common enough among my people.’

‘The Secondborn can take more than one spouse?’ asked Inglor.

‘Not at the same time!’ laughed Haleth.  ‘But if one dies before their time, why should the other be condemned to spend the rest of their life alone? That would be cruel indeed.’  

For the first time in the years she had known him, Haleth had rendered Inglor speechless.  He stared at her in utter dismay, the tips of his ears a delicate shade of pink. The effect would have been amusing if the reason for it had been less annoying.

‘Inglor, don’t look at me like I’ve sprouted an extra head!  Three thousand years is an unconscienceable amount of time to remain alone!  Elves do remarry, at least if the old stories are true.  Finwë certainly did!’

‘But Fingolfin may return one day.  Míriel refused to ever return from Mandos,’ Inglor said quickly.  He bowed his head and continued in a near whisper.  ‘And there are those who still say that if Finwë had borne his loss, the fate of his people would have been much less unhappy.’

Haleth was brought up short.  If Finwë had not remarried, Finarfin would never have been born and without Finarfin there would be no Inglor.

She edged closer and threaded her arm through his.

‘They’re wrong,’ she said with great conviction.

‘Whether they are or are not is of little consequence,’ said Inglor, covering her hand with his. ‘When the Firstborn are wed, they remain wed for all of the life of Arda.’  

All the life of Arda.  Somehow, that prospect didn’t seem that daunting with Inglor by her side. They sat without speaking, the music and conversation droning around them. Haleth was acutely aware of his hand over hers and of the warmth of his arm.  She was sorely tempted to place her head on his shoulder.

‘That is a very long time,’ she finally said, attempting to pull away. 

Inglor grunted and nodded.  Grasping her hand, he held it in place with gentle firmness. Sighing, she yielded to temptation and rested her head against his shoulder, savouring his nearness.  

‘There you are!’

A small crowd of women charged like an invading army around the flower arrangement, led by a woman with raven dark hair and flawless, snow white skin.  Inglor and Haleth jumped apart guiltily as the tide of silk and brocade converged upon them.

‘Inglor!  Why are you not dancing?  You have been away ever so long and there are few enough dance partners.  It is most unfair of you to sit in a corner and hide,’ the leader exclaimed, laughing as she scolded. She noticed Haleth lurking beside Inglor and was brought up short.

‘Oh. I am so sorry,’ she said apologetically.  ‘I did not realize…’

‘Not at all.  Inglor, why do you not go and dance?’ Haleth said in badly accented Quenya. 

If her words were garbled, their meaning was clear.  Inglor allowed himself to be pulled away while the women crowded around Haleth.  Three of them squashed next to her on the bench while the others gathered around to watch the dancing. 

Haleth wondered how obviously out of place she appeared in the midst of so much beauty.  With a mental sigh she dismissed the thought; it was becoming tiresome.  

The women did not seem in the least bothered by her appearance or even her presence.  They talked among themselves in quiet, amused voices, often laughing.  Haleth wished she could join in the conversation.  Despite weeks of immersion in the language she was far from comfortable in Quenya.  While she could manage private conversations, any situation involving more than one speaker left her baffled. 

Haleth located Inglor among the dancers.  The Elves moved through the complicated patterns of the dance with grace and perfect timing.  A memory stirred at the back of her mind.  She and her companions had danced around fires.  The music had been little more than a small harp, rough singing and the uneven clapping of hands.  The movements had been lumbering in comparison to the Elves, but there had been so much more passion in them. Life was sweeter when it would end. All of ages of the world yawned before her. Haleth doubted that she would ever manage to muster that much intensity ever again.  If only she could go home!

She shook her head and concentrated on Inglor instead.  Both he and the maiden dancing with him were laughing.  Haleth was struck by how well matched they were.  A familiar pang of jealousy shadowed her heart. It was just like the situation in Middle-earth; Inglor had attracted a great deal of feminine attention there, too.  It had always irritated Haleth, but looking at how beautiful the maiden was and how gracefully she moved, Haleth's annoyance faded.  She could never hope to compare herself to an Elvish maiden.  Inglor would be far better off with someone beautiful and graceful and who could make him laugh.

The maidens surrounding her broke into laughter.  Haleth wondered what had caused their mirth.  She wished she had a better understanding of Quenya. Effectively isolated and not wanting to think of her personal predicament, she considered what Inglor had just revealed of Elven culture.  She had to admit that he was correct.  It would be exceedingly awkward if Fingolfin returned from Mandos and discovered Lady Anairë married to someone else.

Out of sorts and feeling badly for Anairë, Haleth twisted her silver ring. No matter how many difficulties it might cause it was still unfair of Fingolfin to have left for over three thousand years while expecting his wife to wait for him.  Granted, he had likely not been planning to die when he set off for Middle-earth but three millennia was a terribly long time no matter which perspective she looked at it from; mortal or not.

And if the situation seemed unfair for Lady Anairë, how much more unfair was it for Lady Nerdanel?  At least Lady Anairë had retained the respect of her people; Lady Nerdanel had effectively been exiled.

Elvish society had always been held up as the ideal but Haleth was discovering it could be just as bad as mortal society.  At least the mortals had the honesty to admit they were less than perfect. Haleth sighed in frustration and then noticed that the conversation around her had stopped. She glanced about and, to her chagrin, discovered everyone watching her.

‘I’m sorry?’ she said.  It must be bad manners to sigh in public.  She wished someone would inform her of these things before she made a fool of herself.

‘I apologise. I did not speak clearly,’ said the woman sitting next to her.  With dark hair and grey eyes she was beyond beautiful.  Haleth had known several kings who would have gone to war to have her as queen.

Haleth smiled cautiously and waited for the question to be repeated.

‘We noticed your ring and we were wondering what your intended was like,’ the woman said, speaking very slowly and very clearly while pointing to the band of silver on Haleth’s index finger. 

‘My…what?’ asked Haleth, who wasn’t clear on the Quenya word for betroathed.

‘The one who gave you that ring as a promise of marriage.  What manner of man was he?’

‘He must have been brave if half of what we have heard of you is true,’ said a second woman.

‘I have heard that mortal men are quite strong,’ said a third.

‘Strong enough, I guess,’ said Haleth distantly as another memory revealed itself. Inglor had given her the ring.  She could clearly recall the night in Dale when he had pressed it upon her.  She had been hurt and angry, he had been incandescently furious and they had been engaged only he hadn’t bothered to actually inform her of what she was accepting.

The colour drained from her face as the horror of the full implications of that tiny band of silver set in, especially now that she shared the fate of the Firstborn. 

One man.  One voice.  Droning in her ear.  Until she died. 

‘Except I won’t!’ she wailed in her own language.

She stumbled to her feet and fled the hall.

A confused group of maidens watched her lurch away. 

‘What do you think she said?’ asked the first.

‘I do not know.  She was speaking her own tongue,’ said another.

‘I told you the subject would upset her,’ a third said to the rest.  ‘He has likely passed from the Circles of the World.’

They nodded sagely, each of them familiar with the loss of loved ones.