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Sometimes Húrin has great ideas. Sometimes, they are absolutely idiotic.
Morwen has not yet decided which box this fits in.
She has never herself been made quite as pretty as Húrin looks in his dress, shawl, and hairdo. Indeed, her maidservant has even painted his face perfectly: his lips are full and red, a blush high on his cheeks, and his eyes are masterfully lined with black. Somehow, the wideness of his angular body has been masked in clever cuts and strategically placed drapes. Morwen has an inkling that his waistline is not natural; it must be the work of an elven waist cincher.
Maith does look rather pleased with herself. She is politely containing her amusement, but every turn that Húrin does to show off the billowiness of his dress and every desperate glance Morwen throws her way to make her say something to discourage him, her suppressed smile grows bigger.
“Well?” Húrin asks finally, delight plainly written in his tone. “What do you think?”
“This is insane,” Morwen says bluntly. She doesn’t feel quite as odd, herself; the only thing Húrin’s valet Beldir had to do was to put her hair up in a slightly different way and give her a wide, stiff strap of fabric to force around her chest.
Húrin laughs and sets the mask on his face.
“You look very handsome,” he says and reaches out to take her hand in his. “I am going to have to fend off other ladies.”
“You cannot say a word if you intend to not raise eyebrows,” Morwen says. Húrin sighs and purses his lips.
“Come on,” he says. “I’ll be quiet, if you wish, though I do not see the point.”
Morwen takes up her own mask, gives one last pleading look to Maith, and follows Húrin out of their rooms in the palace.
Once she gets over her anxiety, Morwen realizes that she likes this idea.
Húrin is quiet, indeed, only whispering into her ear, and something about that makes him seem more meek and sweet. With him on her arm, she feels… she doesn’t quite know how, but she does know that the first time they dance and she gets to place her hand on his cinched waist, she experiences a rush of odd arousal.
And Húrin does wear his dress marvellously. On a normal day, Morwen rarely pays attention to his height, but here among elves he really does seem quite small and, well, cute. She doesn’t think she’ll ever say it to him like that, but he truly is adorable like this, a head shorter than the smallest of the elves.
That is the chief reason she is feeling gracious enough to not immediately shoo away the first elf man who comes to ask for a dance with “the lady”.
“Oh, I think you ought to ask the lady herself,” she says, blessing the already low cadence of her voice. “She is unfortunately quite mute, but you might find that she can make herself understood in other ways.”
Húrin laughs, high and somewhat startled. She looks over at him, but he is busy curtsying to the dark-haired elf and taking the offered hand. She almost feels like pulling him back when the elf bows down to kiss his hand before laughing and pulling him off to the dance floor, but in truth she is glad for the pause -- glad to just sit there and wait a while, sipping wine and sampling the little pastries that servants go around offering the guests.
Still, she feels better when she has Húrin back on her arm.
The evening crawls on. Despite Húrin’s playful suggestion that he would have to fend off ladies trying to dance with Morwen, she quickly finds that he is, as ever, more popular with the elves. She does not mind: he enjoys mingling far more than she ever has, and she is content just watching him and receiving him back after a dance. Also, it seems that elven ladies are too chickenshit to ask for a dance -- instead, they would rather sit idle and look available.
Húrin points out one such lady to her after his third dance with someone else.
“You need to have fun, too,” he says right in her ear, very quietly. “That lady in the emerald mask and white hair has been eyeing you all evening, I think she would like a dance.”
“Then why, in all the Valar’s copious names, has she not come up to ask me?” Morwen asks sharply. Húrin frowns at her.
“It’s not proper for elven ladies to go asking for dances,” he says. “No, do not ask me why, not even the High King can explain it to me in a way I can understand. Just go ask her, hm?”
Morwen glances over at the lady again. She looks swiftly away, yet soon her eyes steal back to look at Morwen again.
“Must I?” she asks Húrin.
“Of course not, my lady,” Húrin says. “I’m quite happy to have you wait on me while I flit about with all these elven lords. But you’d brighten her dull evening, I think, and my feet could use the rest.”
Morwen purses her lips, takes another sip of the wine, sighs, and nods.
“Don’t get into trouble while I’m not watching over you,” she says drily. Húrin, always willing to take her bluntness as affection, leans in to kiss her on the cheek and then shoos her off.
When Morwen steps up to the lady, she sets her own wine down and cocks her head at her. She is really quite pretty, as all elves are, and she seems very pleased indeed to be asked to dance. She is taller than her, just slightly, but doesn’t seem to mind it.
It is a slow dance and they have plenty of time and breath to talk, but Morwen doesn’t use much of either. She isn’t an entertainer like Húrin. She doesn’t try very hard to keep up conversation, and apparently they are of like mind with that, since her partner doesn’t try either. Most of the dance goes along in a slightly difficult silence.
“Your little lady is very lucky,” the elf-woman tells her when she returns her to her table. “You seem a right and true gentleman.”
Morwen swallows an amused snort and bows to her.
“And you are a fair and lovely lady,” she says. It’s not a lie, after all, though to her eye elves often look too perfect, too smooth.
Húrin is perched on the table when she returns.
“Get off,” she says. Húrin laughs and slides off the table, skirt rising just slightly. He smooths out the wrinkles and shimmies a little, and the tulle and silk fall back into place. Morwen takes a too-critical look at him, but truth be told, he looks just as lovely as at the start of the evening, nary a hair out of place.
“How do you stay so pretty through so many dances?” she asks.
Húrin shrugs and feigns bashfulness. He looks so silly that Morwen has to chuckle to herself.
“Have you one more dance for me?” she asks. Húrin curtsies, smoother and prettier than any lady she has ever seen (or at least that is what she thinks in that moment), and takes her offered hand.
But soon enough she has to relinquish her monopoly on him again. There is once again yet another dark-haired elf coming for a dance with him, and she doesn’t have the heart to deny him. Besides, Húrin has endless reserves of energy and she, very limited ones. So when the cheerful elf comes up and asks not her but him for a dance, she is quite ready to smile and just give an encouraging nod to Húrin.
The music begins again and off they go. Morwen is indeed now glad she doesn’t have to dance for this brief while: it’s an energetic dance and she never likes to break a sweat in good clothes. She sips her wine and watches as the elf man spins Húrin round and round, here lifting him off his feet and there letting him lead for a while, and it’s almost enough to make jealousy rear up in her chest.
So absorbed is she that when someone clears their throat next to her, she almost drops her glass of wine.
“It seems we are both without a partner for a while,” a rough voice says next to her, and she turns to meet grey, searching eyes that peer through a black velvet mask. She smiles politely.
“Indeed,” she says. “But I fear we could not dance together without causing a ruckus.” The elves tend to be absurd, in some ways, chief of them the weight they put on each person’s dress (and what lay beneath) whether they are man, woman, or something other. She has no doubt that two people in men’s dress dancing together would be the talk of town for a week at least.
The elf next to her smiles.
“Not yet, anyhow,” he says rather cryptically and turns towards the dance floor, perhaps searching for his partner among the dancers. His red hair seems dark in the candlelight, but Morwen has a pretty good idea who she is speaking to already, and she knows the colour of that hair is much lighter outside.
He turns back to her in a moment, but his eyes look past her the way that elven eyes sometimes tend to -- the way that tells her he is trying to look through her.
But she is not called Elfsheen for nothing, nor Lady Frost for her easy disposition. She stares right back at him until his eyes focus on her again.
“My apologies,” Maedhros the Tall says and a slow, wry smile comes to his lips. “I cannot help myself, trying to read you Edain when I meet you. In truth, I find you fascinating.”
“Thank you,” Morwen says stiffly, not at all flattered. Maedhros laughs.
“I sense that my explanation has only made matters worse,” he says and drinks a little wine. His right arm is still hidden in the folds of his cloak. “I did not, and indeed do not, mean to offend. You are a new people to me.”
“I understand,” Morwen says and glances toward the dance floor. It seems the dance is winding to its end. “Your habits are unfamiliar to me, in turn.”
Maedhros says nothing, but observes Húrin’s return with his temporary partner. Húrin curtsies, first to the tall elf man and then to Maedhros, but again says nothing.
“What a jewel you have in the palm of your hand, my lord,” the dark-haired elf says and (annoyingly) leans on the same table where she has set down her and Húrin’s wine glasses. “Are all your women so lively?”
Húrin laughs again and takes up his own glass. Morwen suddenly feels only hostility towards all elvenkind. More, she feels almost compelled to take Húrin in a possessive embrace and never let go. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling in these elven revelries, but she always dislikes it.
And it gets worse, because Maedhros smiles and bows shallowly to Húrin.
“May I have the next dance, then?” he asks and holds out his left hand. “Unfortunately, you might have to adjust somewhat; my right hand is lame.”
“The lady is mute -- the lord, lame!” the dark-haired elf laughs and actually pats Maedhros on the shoulder, probably having no idea who he is being so familiar with. “I’d say it is a perfect pair, if only the lady weren’t half the lord’s height.”
Húrin curtsies with a pretty smile and takes the offered hand. Morwen bites her cheek but says nothing as the pair departs to the dance floor and she watches Maedhros bow down slightly to accommodate Húrin.
“I hope my friend did not steal your partner away against your wishes,” the dark-haired elf says. “I am called Finweg.”
“I was under the impression that this feast was utterly anonymous,” Morwen says, staying steady despite her surprise that Maedhros, famously dour and close, would even have a friend. Unless perhaps she is mistaken and it is some other red-haired elf whose right hand is lame. “It seems to me that the giving of names goes quite against the purpose.”
Finweg laughs.
“Ah, but what does one name of many tell you of me?” he asks and leans closer. “It might simply make things easier to know a name to which to connect a face -- or, well, a mask and a body, in any case.”
“Perhaps,” Morwen says, and sips her wine while watching Húrin keenly out of the corner of her eye. He seems to be having fun, which is great. She loves that.
“Oh, do not fret,” Finweg says. “My friend is spoken for. He is simply enjoying the evening, and your little lady is a delight.”
“I do not question her honour,” Morwen says.
“You call her mute, but you give out less than she does!” Finweg says, still not losing his amusement. “Are all Edain this close-lipped? Surely not, I remember Hador the Golden-Haired could not be silenced by any power!”
“I am not of his house,” Morwen says.
“Indeed, your lady seems more like one of his kin,” Finweg sighs and looks wistful for a second. “She could be his child! Or rather his grandchild, if I reckon correctly. I do miss him, he was always good for less than proper dances. Do you in Dor-lómin ever hold feasts? I would dearly like to experience something different from these scripted things.”
Morwen frowns at him and adjusts her mask, more than slightly unnerved.
“There are feasts sometimes,” she says. “But rarely any elven visitors.”
“Oh, I must keep a better eye on your doings,” Finweg says. “But I am so very busy these days.”
Morwen grunts and drinks more wine. Maedhros is returning with Húrin, and she suddenly just wants to be away for a while. She has a weird feeling that she should know Finweg quite as she knew Maedhros, and that Finweg definitely knows who she and Húrin are, and she is very unwilling to cause a scandal.
As soon as Húrin returns to her side, she puts an arm around his waist. He doesn’t seem to mind, just presses closer against her. He is warm and solid, and it calms her somewhat. Also, Finweg’s attention is off her for a while, since his friend has now returned.
As soon as she sees the next dance starting, she bows to Húrin.
“May I have this dance, my lady?” she asks, and has to suppress a stupid smile as Húrin bites his painted lip and takes the offered hand, mouthing ‘of course’ with a smile of his own.
“And so she returns to her perch,” Finweg says cheerfully. “She does look her best on your arm, my friend the Adan. For the health of you both!” And he drains his cup. Maedhros laughs and shakes his head, and as Morwen leads Húrin away, they lean closer to whisper something together.
“Do you realize who you just danced with?” she asks rather curtly when they are safely in the buzz of the crowded dance floor, taking the first steps of the dance. Húrin laughs and leans up very close to her ear, so close that his breath tickles her skin.
“Do you realize who you talked with all the while?” he asks and kisses her cheek before falling into her proper stance.
The hold is closed, but the dance is vigorous and Morwen has no time to ask what he means, so she just gives herself to the steps. It is a dance she is familiar with. In truth, the only difficult part for her is keeping her eyes off Húrin so she doesn’t spin herself wholly dizzy. His waist feels too solid under her hand and she wishes the brace was off so she could properly sink her fingers in his flesh, press against his ribs and below them. She compensates by yanking him that much closer, causing him to stumble and fall against her.
They bump against the next pair, but regain their footing, and Húrin’s high laugh accompanies the trilling finale of the dance music when she spins him round and round and round and then catches him when he stumbles in dizziness.
When they return to the table, Finweg and Maedhros are gone. Morwen frowns and pulls Húrin tighter against herself as she sees a man at the next table eye him quite impolitely. Húrin presses his head against her arm.
“Who was he, then?” she asks. Húrin makes a confused noise and Morwen sighs. “The one you danced with first. He called himself Finweg.”
Húrin laughs and reaches up to her ear.
“Our High King, of course,” he whispers. “I’d know Fingon the Valiant anywhere, and it’s hardly the first time I’ve danced with him.”
“Of course,” Morwen sighs. It is obvious in hindsight. It makes her so irritated that she almost cannot contain herself. Húrin laughs in that high, feminine giggle he has perfected through the evening and kisses her neck, just below her ear. She feels a veritable lightning bolt of arousal stab through her.
Before she can quite realize what she is doing, she is already pulling Húrin along to the doors of the dance hall, towards the staircase that leads down into the garden.
“What has gotten into you?” Húrin laughs once they are at the stairs, well and truly alone together. She is still clutching his wrist. “I think half the elves are worried for my safety, or my honour.”
Morwen tsks.
“Should I be worried, then?” Húrin continues as she leads him into the empty garden. “And for which?”
There is a gazebo, hidden from prying eyes in the midst of blossoming apple trees. Morwen pulls him there and spins them round, seating herself on the bench and pulling him into her lap.
“Honour, then?” Húrin asks with a grin, and his eyes flash in the light from the palace.
“I have spent the whole night watching you be the most beautiful creature in that stupid ball,” she says sharply. Her hands push up his skirts. “Watching countless elves envy me for having you on my arm. Patiently waiting for the end of the party, so I can have you to myself.”
“My lord!” Húrin gasps in a comically high, squeaky voice, and she slaps a hand over his mouth.
“I don’t want to be patient anymore,” she concludes and tugs his (stupidly ruffled) bloomers down just enough to reach his cock. He moans and as she cautiously removes her hand from his mouth, he replaces it with both of his own. Like this, he looks nothing like a great lord of men -- he is more like a maiden from a particularly dirty story, assailed by a rough man and secretly delighted with it.
No doubt he, ever the show-off, is perfectly aware of that.
Morwen speeds up the movement of her hand. Her own arousal feels secondary -- an afterthought. She is focused on Húrin, heavy in her lap and failing to stifle the stream of moans and sighs that leave his lips.
He is sweet and he is beautiful, and Morwen wishes she could lift him up and hold him against the middle beam of the gazebo with his feet wholly off the ground as she keeps pleasuring him. But he is also muscular and heavy, and she can only lift him enough to set him down on the bench and kneel in front of him.
“It won’t do to get stains on your pretty dress,” she says, rucking up his skirts and swallowing him down without further ado.
The noise that Húrin makes is desperate now, and it doesn't take long at all for him to spill into her mouth. When he does she swallows and immediately rises to her feet, intending to tidy him up somewhat, but Húrin embraces her. He is shivering a little.
“I love you,” he whispers. “I love you, I love you.”
Morwen can only think of dismissive, mean, sharp things to say, so she says nothing. She simply hugs him tight. He is warm and disarmingly soft in her arms.
“What can I do for you?” Húrin asks after a while. His hands move to grip her waist. She frowns a little and pulls away.
“Let’s go to our rooms,” she says. “I think I want a bath.”
Húrin smiles, and she feels her heart do something funny.
“I’ll help you wash.”