#pov changes

word count: 4036

There’s a maturity that comes with dying. Some sort of wisdom or perspective that makes his life and priorities from before seem incredibly insignificant and childish. He knows that he’s been changed, that he’s died, that he’ll never be the same. There’s no way to change back now.

The metamorphosis altered him beyond his new mindset, species, and subsequent power set. He can’t help but see his classmates and friends (though it is mostly Sam and Tucker that he sees it in) as adorably oblivious. They look so young to him now, so innocent. Most of their actions and worries are trivial in the grand scheme of things, but he can’t help but be enamored. He’s become weak to their pleading because, at the end of the day, they were there for him (even if they were the reason behind it in the first place). They could have left, could have fled once he started screaming. Or before, when they were all humans and got in trouble together doing their hare-brained schemes. But they didn’t. 

They covered for him. They stayed, even if he is now a completely different type of entity than them, a fact they’ve been ignoring in the face of pretending he is still human (even though pure humans would never be able to develop such abilities and skills that he now possesses). His friends, who were there when it happened, seem unable to accept the consequences of their actions and the fact that he’s not the same being who walked down into the lab with them.

He knows dying made an impact on him. That he will never be Danny, be the little kid (barely a teen—oh how proud he used to be of officially being a teen!) who wandered into the hole in the wall in an effort to show off in front of his only friends, completely disregarding his screaming survival instincts and the voices of his parents in his head that warned him away from the lab. He barely recognizes that version of himself, the boy who had known better, who had hesitated on the precipice of reason before forcing himself to step forward (to trip and fall and die a death no one but him has accepted or even tried to understand yet). 

He hadn’t wanted to. He had known it was a bad idea. He had even said as much as they urged him into the PPE, but the thought of backing out and seeing the disappointment in their eyes, had been worse. (He would do practically anything for them.) Besides, his parents, while telling them to stay out of the lab for safety, had claimed that the portal machine was safe, even if they didn’t know why it wasn’t working… so it would be fine, right? 

So, he had silenced the voice of reason, ignored the churning of his guts (instincts that had saved him before), and walked into the device. Not out of excitement, but because turning back had felt like an admission of… not weakness, but something he hadn’t been ready to name. (A feeling that he can no longer comprehend like he used to… his whole way of understanding emotions and processing them has fundamentally shifted and changed with his soul emerging from the human chrysalis it used to inhabit and shifting into his current form.) The jackhammering of his heart in his chest was the last thing he had felt before he had tripped and only felt the A̷̢͈̽͐͛͐̄Ǵ̶͙̤̞͌͆͑̎̚͝͝Ō̶̡͇͖̻̝̠͔̺̭̝̼̠͙̅̋̀̆͒̊̈́̊̍N̸̫̹̘͔̬͍̠̺̘̯̟͖͕̋́̐͒̿̀̔͛̚͜͝͠ͅY̷̘̻̜̠͈̫͚̻͂ of death. (A feeling he will never have again, for he no longer has a naturally beating heart.)

Now, he wonders what that boy would think of who he is now. Would he be horrified (at him or their friends)? Would it be possible for him to understand the ways he’s been reshaped? Would Danny be able to recognize the body he sees in the mirror as his? 

His friends still laugh, still stress over things that once felt important, still carry themselves like the world is exactly as they always thought it was. For all that witnessing his death traumatized them, his friends carry on like the world is still solid beneath their feet. (And to be fair, it is; they don’t have to worry about existing in the same dimension as everything else like he does. It makes him feel like what they did had no real consequence. He hates it.) The only reason he hasn’t exploded at them is how exhausted the two of them have become. With Tucker panicking and updating everything to be even less likely to discharge electricity, and Sam not only no longer joking about being dead inside but also no longer wearing anything that has a death motif… it is clear they were impacted by what happened. The panicked calls for “check-ins” in the middle of the night make that more than clear that they care and were impacted. Even if neither of them have tried to address it.

He doesn’t begrudge them for it. But he knows, with a quiet certainty, that he will never again see things the way they do. And he’s glad. (For all that, he wishes that someone would accept his state of being or at least acknowledge it; he would never ask them to die for him, to face what he did. He just wishes they would accept that he’s no longer human. They deserve to be Protected; they were the twin stars he orbited around after all. But the result of their peer pressure needs to be addressed before it forces him to leave.)

They, his friends, just call it “the accident.” He almost laughs at that sometimes, like it was something minor, something that had no big impact or held much importance. But every day, the evidence piles up as he notices more things that mark him as more “other” than human.

In his human shift, his skin holds no warmth (all he feels is cold now, but he doesn’t mind, it’s comforting); his touch startles others, like touching ice unexpectedly. His skin is now pale in a way that feels uncanny if one stares at it too long. He’s the kind of white that the women he’s read about in history textbooks used to die for. Literally, women used to poison themselves for the perfect porcelain complexion. (Ha! Ironic isn’t it? He achieved what they strived for, it only took his death. His skin is now the shade of death and dolls that gather dust on antique shelves.)

His ears taper to points, his canines long enough to puncture his lips if he were human. His fingernails are much thicker now, almost like claws with their sharp ends. And when he moves, he’s all fluidity and grace; no stumbles, just the precision of an apex predator. His eyes gleam an unsettling and piercing blue, shifting to a glowing ectoplasmic green when his emotions get particularly strong. 

And when he’s outside, or under any kind of light? Nothing. No shadow. Just emptiness where it should be, no matter his form or how solid he tries to be.

And if one were really paying attention, they’d notice that he doesn’t eat anymore. (Despite not eating, he never finds himself hungry. He has found that he can still stomach water, and enjoys drinking it chilled with ice cubes on occasion, but that’s all he can bring himself to stomach. Instead, when he feels fatigued, he goes home so that he can absorb the energy radiating from the portal… if he finds the emotions around his friends isn’t enough to sustain him.) They would also notice that despite the almost translucent quality that his smooth as silk skin now has, there are no veins that can be seen. (It makes sense, when he took the time to think about it. He has no need for blood; after all, he’s not naturally a solid being after all.) Sometimes, when he sees himself in the mirror, he wonders… if he cradled a skull in his hands, would anyone even be able to tell the difference between the color of his skin and the bone he would be holding so gently?

The truth of his being isn’t something he can hide from anyone who cares to look, isn’t something he cares much to hide either, but it also isn’t something he will shout from the rooftops. In fact, he is still discovering things that make him Other, makes him different from the humans he surrounds himself with. 

Not that anyone pays him enough attention to notice, beyond his friends who are living in denial. And Jazz, who has most of the clues but still can’t put the puzzle pieces together. (It’s probably the sheer absurdity of it. Her brother is dead, and she doesn’t believe in spirits or anything like that. And yet, there he is. Still going to school, despite lacking a heartbeat. Still laughing with his friends.) He knows that if the portal wasn’t working, his parents would already know… or at least Maddie would, but they’ve been spending all their down time in the basement working on countermeasures for the portal and possible ghost invasions.

For all that he’s accepted that he’s not a human, he would like to say that he still embodies the virtues that are held dear by them, even if he judges things and makes decisions on a different metric than they do. It sometimes takes effort for him to understand some of the decisions people make, but he tries. It is the least he could do when he wants them to do the same for him.

His true form, he knows, would draw from the masses horrified screams and make him the center of attention with his lack of legs and the fact that his eyes are a swirl of green, blue and white. His deathmark is also far from subtle, sparkling along his pale-blue skin and white lips that match the shade of his hair and eyebrows. Nothing about his appearance could fool one into thinking he was human. He liked that about it. It was in no way misleading or lying.

His decisions these days are mostly based on whether he will regret it later and how it would impact those around him. (Since his death, he’s become more aware of the world and people around him. He’s always been considerate, but now he notices the little things: the people who enter rooms after him, the exhaustion that Mr. Lancer always emits, the way Mikey’s eyes light up when someone talks to him. The way his friends, Sam and Tucker, brighten when they ramble on about whatever they want to talk about. And he acts on it. He holds the door open for anyone who is behind him, stays after class to help clean up, makes sure no one gets left sitting alone [even if it means talking his friends into it], and makes sure to hang out with his friends, both together and solo. It feels important now, in a way he never grasped while red blood traveled through his veins.)

Even with this new, broader understanding of the world and what he wants his place and impact on it to be, he finds himself surprised and a little emotionally unprepared as he floats above Danny, the charred remains of what used to be his body.

The reality of his death stares back at him, raw and undeniable. He had already accepted his death. It had become a known fact in his mind as soon as he had woken up. But even knowing of his own demise, stumbling across him (the body, the chrysalis his soul left behind) isn’t something he had expected. (Oh, Ancients, look at him! That was him!!!) 

His corpse lies twisted, contorted in a way that suggests Danny had tried, in his final moments, to reject what was happening to him (even though he had eventually failed).  His arm is still stuck out, like it's still touching the button or loose panel that started it all. 

The PPE, meant to shield him, the suit that he put on for a stupid photo he was peer pressured into that would have no significant or emotional meaning behind it, clings like a second, ruined skin, shriveled and warped, desperately holding onto the flesh beneath it as if trying to keep him together. It has fused in places, the fabric melted into charred muscle and stiffened into grotesque ridges where electric fire and energy had licked and seared. In other spots it is torn and peeling, ripped apart where his body had fought against the unbearable heat/pain. The material has sunk in, melted past the epidermis, becoming one with the raw and blackened tissue that had been cooked from the inside out like it was some big steak at a barbecue where all the dads got too distracted and wound up putting everything in the microwave because it got too cold.

And his face—Ancients, his face. 

The fatal wound had slithered its way up from his arm to his cheek, jagged and branching like lightning frozen mid-strike. It stretches across his skin, chaotic and sprawling, stopping just beneath one of his eyes. As if the force that had killed him had managed not to affect him, to not reach his soul through his eyes (the natural body’s window), turning the skin around the area to the texture of jerky. (A food he hated even back when he was human, one he thinks he’ll never be able to even look at now.)

It is said that eyes are windows to the soul, but isn't this (him being unaffected by it all) then a lie? Like the butterflies that mimic others in order to seem poisonous when they aren't. He is no longer who he once was. He is not Danny, the boy who lived and breathed and grew in that skin. He is something different, something taken from the heart of the star he used to be and exploded and twisted into something new. He cannot say that his death didn't affect his soul because it did. It changed who he is; changed how he defines himself and how he interacts with the world. So, finding his eyes clear of any damage disgusts him. One last falsehood branded on his body. (He hates this. He hates this. He really, truly hates it.)

The organs remain perfectly preserved, half open and lifeless, as if they should comfort him with their pristine state saying that he was unaffected. But instead, they only disturb him, even with the settled blood staining the ends of the orbs a dark red. It is nothing but a pretty lie, a deception that sickens him… but maybe their state would bring his friends comfort? 

His skin, everywhere else, tells the truth. It is ruined, warped beyond recognition, twisted into something that no longer looks 100% human. In that, at least, he can find comfort. He has come to value truths, a virtue he didn’t hold too much stock in until his metamorphosis. Because beyond his new instincts saying lying isn’t even worth it, he understands now what it means to be the unspoken consequence. 

That is because he is the result, the aftermath, the only evidence (excluding his corpse), of what occurred. His body is a testament to the price paid for foolish actions and his parents’ lies, a scar carved into reality itself. (Why has he had to pay the price when his parents have no clue that anything even happened as a result of their lies, beyond the portal suddenly working?)

There is no denying what happened. There are no soft edges, no illusions, just the raw, unvarnished truth lying before him in all its glory. And if nothing else, at least the truth does not pretend. (Danny can’t; he’s dead.) It does not soothe with empty reassurances or try to reshape itself into something more palatable. It simply is. His skin bears it, his very existence embodies it. And though the world may try to look away, to forget, to deny, he never will. He can't. Because he is the reminder. The consequence. The floating, talking proof that some things, once changed, can never be the exact same again. He will most likely never lie again (there’s no real point when it comes to things like this).

Finding Danny had been a surprise. Not a shocking one, but something unexpected all the same. (It did raise an emotional response in him, but it was mostly a sense of wrongness; that he shouldn’t be there.) He had wanted to see the portal from the other side, to see if his instinct about how different the swirl pattern in the portal from the other side was right. He never expected this. (He hadn’t truly thought about it. If he had been asked earlier, he wouldn’t have believed that he had left a body behind. Would have believed that his undead form had somehow been bound to the human one he was based on, or perhaps that it had been incinerated from all the energy of the portal opening and stabilizing.)

He thought he’d take a moment to trace the swirling patterns in the familiar green light that followed him everywhere these days, just a brief pause to get a bit more energy before trying to focus on reading that book Sam asked him to look over. But then… but then he saw Danny, and he couldn’t do anything other than stare. It had taken him a moment to realize that he had instinctively gone invisible at the sight, as if hiding would somehow erase the horrifying sight before him. His remains. Danny.

And the worst part? Danny shouldn’t be here. He should be buried, safe beneath the earth, and given a proper farewell. Laid to rest.

But he isn’t. To be stuck on his death site is a horrific fate, a constant reminder of his last moments… No wonder he’s been having issues with his anger. Danny won’t find peace, not here. Not surrounded by the machine that took his life and its ceaseless noises. How could he rest with the sounds of his worst agony constantly echoing around him?

He has to do something about it. And it has to be now.

The moment he shifts dimensions, to move him, to free him from this terrible place, he takes a deep breath (an ingrained soothing habit that no longer really works anymore) and is immediately hit with the odor. He tries to expel it, tries to remove the memory of experiencing it, but it’s everywhere—thick and sticky, clinging to him like syrup left out on the counter on a hot day, something that would be impossible to ever fully clean up.

Danny smells of things that… are just plain wrong. He smells of burnt chicken and sickly-sweet decomposition. The air stings with the scent, almost burning the ecto-strands in his nose with something similar to sulfur and ozone. It’s... too much. Metallic bitterness lingers at the back of his throat even after he turns off his lungs, like blood spilling from an infected wound. The memory/sensation of it sticks to him, sinking to his very core and sticking to it like droplets of slowly coagulating blood. 

There is no escape. He innately knows that there is no shower hot enough nor soap strong enough, and no amount of time in the fresh air will be long enough to get rid of it—of the memory of this discovery. He will carry this with him forever. Though thankfully all the ectoplasm in the air has stopped him from decomposing as fast as he would in any other location.

It takes him a bit to get his bearings, to rally enough to be able to actually approach Danny with the knowledge of his scent (even if the only reason he still smells it is he remembers it and it won’t go away). He floats closer slowly, cautiously, like he wishes he had allowed himself to be when he was here before instead of racing to get the photo so that he could leave (back when he was alive and fragile enough for it to kill him). The glow he passively emits in this form adds a light to the glazed-over eyes that only emphasizes their emptiness, that there’s no one home. It’s like a vampire staring longingly into a mirror, having long forgotten their appearance but still having no reflection to view themself with, and so their visage is forgotten.

He considers forcing himself onto the physical plane, to place his feet on the ground and feel the weight of gravity, but that feels wrong. Like he’s trying to convince Danny that it’s okay, that he’s alive, but he’s not. Hasn’t been for a while now and never will be again. So, he continues in his natural state, the pull of Earth’s mass towards him nonexistent on his paranormal body as he changes his orientation so that his body is closer to the floor. How does he want to do this? 

Gathering up his courage, he goes to scoop up his corpse into a princess carry, only to find his hands slipping through Danny. He stares at his hands, he knows that they are tangible at the moment, he can feel his body forcing itself to be still enough to be solid. But his hands slipped right on through, leaving them to brush the warm metal of the machine.

Maybe he just missed? Maybe he moved too fast? He knows that isn’t the case.

He steels himself and floats forward again. He squares his shoulders, forcing himself to stay calm. Be solid. Pick him up. That’s it. One thing at a time, he can do this. Then he floats down to scoop up Danny, only for his hands to pass right through him… again.

He blinks. Looks down at his hands. They’re solid. He knows they are, just like he knows that they were last time. He can feel the strain of holding himself together, forcing his form to stay tangible. But Danny? He’s untouched, still in the same position as before.

With a shaky breath, he tries again. He forces himself to slow down, and be more deliberate. He focuses, narrows everything down to the feeling of his hands, his fingers, the forced tangibility he wills upon his body. He reaches. And again, his arms slip through Danny like he’s made of smoke.

A surge of panic bubbles up from under his forced calm. That’s not right. That’s not right. He growls, his eyes flash an even brighter green, and his core rumbles with his rising emotions. And he tries again. And again. And again. Each attempt is more frantic than the last. But no matter how hard he focuses, no matter what he tries, he gets the same result of his hands gliding through Danny like he isn’t there even though he can still smell him. He almost wishes that he could smell his own emotions, that way it might drown out the scent of the corpse but he has a feeling it would also make things worse.

He can’t touch him. He can’t move him. He can’t do anything. And that terrifying truth sets in like trees taking root in his core.

What to do now? He ponders, having finally given up being able to even touch his body. Well, maybe he could get someone else to help move and bury him? Who could he ask? Jazz, Maddie, and Jack still have no idea that he could even be dead, so they’re out… but perhaps Sam and Tucker could? They would freak out over seeing his corpse, and that isn’t something he wants to happen, but he doesn’t have the time to wait for them to accept his death. Danny deserves to be moved from there. As fast as possible. And if that means that he needs to force his friends to face the truth, then that’s what he’s going to do.

It did not. Because after dinner, the cat was ill twice. *facepalm* Furballs, so nothing serious but still, mum can't sort it, she's fine with dogs but not cats, so that's my job and...

Yeah. I FINALLY started writing at 10pm

On one hand, starting at 10pm does mean I had enough time left to get my four sprints in...

On the other hand, my speed stalled just a bit. IF you can call 3.2k stalling. It's still substantially more than the 2.5k I've set as my daily target, but it's also the lowest wordcount I've had all month so... mixed feels, comforted with my earned garlic bread.

Interestingly, as I was rewriting draft 2 into draft 3 I hit a point where I was about 2/3rds of the way through an Andric POV chapter, and suddenly thought, "Actually, this is a good stopping point..."

I had another 800-850 words of the chapter left to rewrite, but when I looked at it, putting that in the next chapter, which is Lizzy's POV, gave me a chance to show a bit more of Olwen's character, and to foreshadow Booker's mild precognitive ability, and to show some more relationship development with Andric and her.

Also, it brings up the next chapter's word count, which doesn't hurt. It was a little on the lower end of my bracket.

So all in all I'm not mad about the shift, it was just a surprising one, and not one I'd planned for.

Excerpt;

"You okay?" he whispered against her hair, and she shrugged. "I hate that you're hurt," she confessed, and felt his breathing stutter. "I know." She didn't know what to say to that. She knew Andric had accepted, and she wasn't going to ask him not to. It left them right where they were standing, and then Booker's voice broke through their bubble. "Everything okay now?" he asked, voice falsely bright, and Lizz lifted her face from Andric's chest. "Yes… I think so?" Lizzy said, voice questioning the anxious look on her best friend's face as he stood with his hands shoved into his pockets, Olwen just behind him with a scowl on her usually friendly features. "Oh good," Booker chirped, "because I'm getting a fairly strong precognitive sensation that Olwen's going to make me pay for that trick once she gets us in a ring of our own. I just wanted to make sure my intervention was worthwhile." Lizzy looked at Olwen again, only to realise the scowl she'd thought the woman was sending Booker, was in fact the pain-filled remnants of whatever telepathic static he'd shoved into her head.

As for November 6th, I've just hit a patch that I wrote more recently. It's a scene between Booker and Lizzy that will reveal to anyone who doesn't get their hands on the preorder bonus, just exactly what's going through his head in this book.

But since it was written more recently, I already knew there would be less editing/rephrasing required.

What I didn't anticipate was that my first two sprints for November 6th have been over 1k each again...

Sprint 1; 1,137

Sprint 2; 1,151

Since I seem to be doing REALLY well today, and I've probably got one more sprint to complete this scene, I've taken a bit of a pause for dinner.

But after this scene, the next chapter is, in contrast, going to slow me down substantially.

It's a chapter that I haven't actually written yet.

During one of my "How do I get over this writing block?" sessions, I realised I needed a specific scene to highlight Olwen Pryce's character, and to foreshadow some things for the end of the book. So I have some "bits" written, I have some outline, I have some notes about what needs to be shown, and what needs to be foreshadowed, but the chapter itself still needs to get an initial draft down.

I'm hoping to just keep rolling with the sprints this evening, and get as much as I can done before midnight... which will hopefully mean my inevitably smaller word count tomorrow won't set me too far back on my total monthly goal.

So, I finished Nov 6th with 4 sprints, the last two were in the mid-900's words, so I did well, but I ran out of time before midnight to make much more progress 'today'.

Still, I'm not mad at a 4k day, and almost 25k total word count on day six ^_^

Author’s Note: So here it is a “couple of days” later lol. Overall I think I did an okay job at characterizing Manwë and the rest. I don’t think it's horrible but it could be better. I worked super hard on this so I hope it reads okay for everyone. And please let me know if I made any mistakes or if you have any tips. I’ll try to come back and fix them if I can.

Ps. Please remember this was a part of a larger work. I'm just dicing it into pieces. And I’ll be posting the second part as soon as I can. This story was supposed to have three-five parts. I don't know if I’m gonna post all five or leave it at three. And a little disclaimer here but I have never written for any of these characters before and I’ll admit that dialogue is my weakest skill. Anyway thank you for reading and I hope you have a very blessed day!

And Flora, thank you so so much for all the love and support you gave me! I really appreciate it.  

Little Dove

POV: Manwë

Manwë was ashamed of himself. Truly, was there no worse feeling in the world? Lord Irmo’s Maia had performed wonderfully in their duties. They had prepared Irmo’s Mansion in festive decor in record time and had managed to provide such scrumptious food for the feast tonight. A task he was sure had been near impossible with the sheer number of elves joining this evening, far more than expected. And here he sat with his fellow Vala at a night of Celebration feeling…unwell, to say the least. The burden he usually carried felt heavier than usual. He sat at the head of his table boneless in his chair and his temples pounding. His nerves were tingling with fire and he was so warm he thought he might turn to ash.

He had desperately hoped this evening would go differently.

Tonight they were to celebrate and bless Finwe’s newest grandchild. The elves were quite ecstatic about the Festivals arrangements even some of his own maia were quite pleased. The Halls of Irmo echoed the sounds of music from lutes to flutes to harps to bells and joyous laughter bounced off the walls. Colorful decorations had been hung and the ballroom floor had been polished with enough shine to mirror the people’s reflections. Chandeliers hung above emphasizing both the vaulted ceilings and the embroidered tapestries. Over high arches there were plants and flowers growing and they wrapped around pillars and over some of Lord Irmo’s statues. In between it all the Elves danced about and ate and drank by their tables and sang. Honestly, it was quite a sight.

Shifting in his seat he rested his elbow on the arm rest and placed his head in his hand. With the insistent pounding in his head he briefly closed his eyes to feel the smooth coolness of his robes upon his skin, almost wishing on Varda’s stars he hadn’t been needed for tonight’s attendance. Perhaps if he had done so he wouldn’t have to sit and listen to all the noise.

But no. He had his duties to perform and besides he’d kick himself if he hadn’t come. Somewhere amongst the merry making elves was a sweet little elleth who’d waited very patiently to meet with them. She’d undoubtedly been anxiously awaiting for her big day with bated breath. Heart filled to the brim with the utmost excitement, most likely annoying her parents in the meantime, and he had no desire to ruin the night for her.  Just the thought of it made his stomach churn with guilt.

However, his mind was occupied with bigger things. As much as he’d like his biggest concern to be the happiness of a young elf. He truly had far more important things to think about. Like young Prince Feanor and his strange behavior as of late. Or that of his brother’s sheer lack of, well, effort he should say.

It seemed everything was losing balance and crumbling in towards his feet. He was not sure what to do with the young Prince; in fact, Manwë would go as far as to say Feanor was paranoid. Though a part of him understood that Feanor had always been protective of his work and he had accomplished much in his time. Perhaps the young Prince was simply fixated on a new project again. It did make him wonder what exactly was going through the young elf’s mind when it came to moments like these. Perhaps he should consult Lord Aulë next he saw him.

His brother, Melkor, was not in attendance tonight. With Melkor’s recent release into Valinor he had thought the celebration would be a perfect chance for his brother to reintroduce himself to the Elven people and bolster his morale but alas Melkor had made other arrangements. Simply put Melkor had made no attempt in connecting with the elves or even acknowledging them. He knew Melkor felt terrible about what happened but further isolating himself didn’t help matters.

Manwë took a breath moving to pinch the bridge of his nose strands of his white hair falling in his face. Why both Feanor and Melkor had to be so stubborn instead of simply enjoying themselves would forever boggle his mind. At the mere thought his head ached and as the minutes drew on, it only got worse. He had over exerted himself and was now paying the price.

His lady wife had warned him, his precious lady was the only highlight of his evening thus far and he was forever grateful. He tilted his gaze and watched her through white lashes as she talked freely with Lady Nienna beside him. He adjusted the grip on his face and felt his rings bite into his skin.

Varda was simply breathtaking. She had worn some of her finest robes in honor of the celebration. They were the color of lavender and her new pretty silver circlet sat upon her brow. A large gem of diamond rested on her forehead, sparkling almost as brightly as the tiny dotting of stars in his lady’s raven hair. Simply breathtaking. Exquisite in the highest regard.

Unable to resist he very lightly let the back of his fingers graze her arm, aware of the public eye. Varda glanced at him and he smiled when she turned to face him. Lady Neinna being momentarily distracted with the arrival of her brother Irmo.

His love racked her eyes over him once whispering, “Darling, you look exhausted. How are you feeling?”  

He ignored her, simply taking his time to admire her form. “You look positively ravishing tonight. Have I told you?” She hummed, leaning in and fussing with the side of his robe. He closed his eyes and breathed in her scent. He could smell the oil she had used, the light floral hint and hear the jingle of her jewelry. He could feel the heat of her words by his ear as she spoke, “Yes, three times this evening, my love.”

“Only three?”

“Only three.”

“An oversight on my part, my dear, I’ll have to regale you with praises of your brilliance to make up for it.”

She laughed. “You’ll have to do so in the comfort of our home.” She sat back into her chair, her drink in hand. He watched as Lady Nienna pulled his wife's attention away from him with a smile. Though the sharp glance Varda sent his way told him that his avoidance in answering her earlier question would not last for long.

He averted his gaze from his wife, feeling his blood pulse and his stomach pinch. He rubbed his forehead and felt a slight dew of sweat. Maybe a minute or two away to compose himself would be best. Rid him of his mood. With a word to his wife Manwë excused himself discreetly slipping from the ballroom and entering Irmo’s blessedly quiet halls.

POV: Finrod

Finrod was silent as he watched the crowd, his blue eyes raking across the room. There were hundreds of elves here tonight. A wonderful turn out for him and his family but a misfortune in Y/n’s eyes. He was quite certain, however; that she'd look back at this moment in life and be grateful so many had come. For his part, he was thrilled to see so many elves had come to celebrate his sister’s special day and share in this moment.

He’d be the first to admit that, in retrospect, he could have planned for Y/n’s first public appearance far better than he did. And while that responsibility belonged to his Atar, and his Atar alone, Finrod felt particularly responsible. After all, as her eldest brother she looked more towards him for guidance and reassurance. And his sister was still a young elf, practically a babe, he felt that it was his job to guide her steps when he could and help her adjust to new things as time grew on.

Before tonight, Y/n hadn’t made any appearances or participated in any event. If the public saw her at all it was a glimpse of her hair and gown.

Naturally when she’d first heard of her party and the expected amount of party goers, she’d been reasonably frightened and had spent the last few months dreading the party. She’d tried to find every excuse under the Light of the Two Trees to not come. And he had tried to lessen her anxiety and subsequent panic by taking her out to the market and letting her explore on her own terms. Even if that consisted of her glaring at passerbyers and gripping onto his hand with all the strength a little elleth like her had.

Despite his best efforts and reminders about the importance of her Presentation to the Valar. Y/n had thrown a fit about attending with Amillë earlier and had told him right before passing the party’s threshold that she was scared to go and had asked him to stay with her.

As a result she’d been wanting his attention like no other tonight. Tugging on his robes and pulling his arm, holding his hand, hugging his leg, and mostly clinging onto him. It’d gotten to the point he almost tripped over her, she’d been so close! All of this while many noble houses and their representatives came to speak with her or more rather him. As he would redirect their attention elsewhere.

He understood she was nervous about being out with so many people. And he understood that she felt safer with him. However, her behavior was getting a little . . . much. Though some part of him felt guilty that he hadn’t been able to better prepare her for tonight. If he had she probably would have fully enjoyed her celebration instead of hiding behind him for the majority of it.

Finrod raised his arm, feeling his robes shift with him and pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel the beginnings of a headache. This evening was dragging on far longer than he’d like.

“Finnie? . . . Finnie!? . . . Finniee!”

He felt an insistent tugging on his robes and held in a sigh. Dealing with a hyper ten year elfling at such a late hour was not on anyones to do list he was sure. He looked down at his sister and found her clutching tightly onto his robes in her pretty pink gown. Her eyes wide and doe like as she stared into his and he felt some of the tension flow from his shoulders.

“What is it?”

She beamed up at him and bounced on her toes.

“Can we get that pretty cake with the raspberries, please?”

He frowned, raspberry cake? He hadn’t seen that particular treat being severed this evening. Not an actual raspberry cake. A cake topped with raspberries, perhaps?

“What cake?”

“The really small, pretty one, over dere!” Y/n squirmed excitedly and pointed over the buffet table, “Over dere! See?” He followed her finger and found that there was indeed a dessert that had raspberries but it wasn’t a cake, it was a raspberry tart. A sweet tasty pastry made with an almond and raspberry filling. Topped with cream and raspberries. He had eaten it before, it was very tasty, full of flavor. And something a ten year elfing definitely didn’t need at this time of night.  

“How about we save one for you tomorrow, hm?”

“Tomorrow?! Why can’t I have it now? ‘Em hungry now! Pretty please Finnie, I promise to be good!” She whined. Her eyes swelled with water and she jutted out her bottom lip, pouting.

Finrod shook his head, chuckling, “Don’t fret, I'll get you something equally as nice.”

“You promise?” She sniffed.

He playfully rolled his eyes and leaned down to pinch her nose, coaxing a giggle from her. “Of course.”

Y/n vigorously nodded her head excited. “Okay! Can we dance after?”

“I’d be delighted too.” Taking Y/n’s hand he led her to the buffet table. It was decorated with a pink tablecloth and vibrant pink colored rose petals scattered underneath the small fruits and dinner appropriate dishes. The decorations for this evening had been up to Lord Irmo's maia to decide. But he remembered how Y/n had been approached by a maia who had asked her what color she favored best. He smiled remembering the encounter as Y/n happily looked through the options.

He watched his sister fondly as she babbled about the berries she wanted and which were best. Her hair had been loosely braided for the evening. And he knew how much she hated having her hair pinned. She made it a common practice to remind Amillë and every other elf within hearing distance how uncomfortable it was. How the pins always pulled her hair too tight and how silly it made her look. He wouldn’t be surprised if Amillë had been regaled with the usual speech earlier in the evening. With a reminiscent look in his eyes he placed his large hand on her head.

Y/n huffed tilting her head up to glare at him.

“Finnie, you're gonna ruin it!”

He smirked, “Oh, please nésa, I’m not ruining it.”

“Oh, come now, cousin. You know how the ladies are with their hair.”

Finrod grinned and turned to meet the voice of his cousin.

“Fingon!” He stepped forward and clasped Fingon’s shoulder. “It's been several months since I last saw you. How have you been? Staying out of trouble I hope?”

Fingon tossed his head back as he laughed, his roped gold braids bumping against his chest. “Ha! If only! How about you, hm?” He raised a dark brow. “Smooth sailing I hope?”

Finrod released a sigh, and let go of his cousin’s shoulder, “It is as you said, ‘if only,’ though it hasn’t been nearly as miserable as last year's . . . festivities, I should say.” Referencing a particularly nasty disagreement between two noble houses that had happened late last year. Both high ranking ellons who served in the royal court. Their bickering had created quite a scandal though no one really knew as to why or what had started it, only that it had something to do with their daughters and that it had been a private affair. In the end, it’d required the King's discretion in ending whatever it was and the King refused to speak of it. Though that didn’t stop the people from speculating nor the raging gossip that had filled the palace halls.  

Fingon nodded in acknowledgment casting his eyes downward as a playful grin crossed his face, “And it appears my littlest cousin is shy tonight?”

Finrod looked down to see the top of Y/n’s head as she grabbed onto his robes partially hiding behind his leg and a surprisingly good amount of berries in her fist. He was surprised she hadn’t taken the opportunity to steal that pastry she wanted.

“If you came around more often she’d be more familiar with you.” He meet Fingon’s eyes while placing a hand to the back of Y/n’s head again. “Nésa, why don’t you say hi, hm?”

“Hi.” She wiggled herself further behind his leg, cheeks blooming with color. Fingon beamed at her, “Hello, Y/n. How are you tonight?”

“Fine.” Y/n muttered and Finrod lightly bumped her side, “And, and how are you? Do you like the party?” She asked. Quickly shoving a few berries into her mouth.

Fingon made an exaggerated nod, “I do!” Then as if he had a secret to share he leaned in close and covered the side of his mouth. “I especially enjoyed the candied fruits they served tonight.” To prove this he pulled a candied strawberry from, seemingly, his robe’s pocket and happily popped the polished fruit into his mouth.

Y/n let out a disbelieving gasp, “What?!”  She turned to him saying, “Finnie! Why does he get to have his treats and I don’t? That isn’t fair!”

Fingon reeled back in mock horror, “What!? Finrod, is that true? You're keeping her from her cake?”

Finrod glared at him while mildly wondering how many other treats his cousin had up his sleeves, “No, I am not. Now just isn’t the appropriate time for cake. She's had enough sugar for tonight.” He crossed his arms and fought a scowl from his face. He’s dealt with his energetic sister all evening and he wasn’t keen on making the inevitable sugar crash any worse than it had to be. “And she wants a pastry not a cake.”

Fingon ignored him and gave another dramatic gasp, “Not on your Begetting Day! Indeed this isn’t fair!”

He rolled his eyes, “Not that I need to remind you but it is also her Presentation to the Valar. Fetching her more sugar would not be a good idea. She’ll feel sick if she consumes anymore. Not to mention that once the sugar rush leaves I’ll have to deal with a very cranky and exhausted elleth.”

“That's all the more reason to let her have it!” Fingon waved his hand, “Besides she’ll be presented to the Valar soon enough. Why not let her have the treat? She can go to bed right after the Presentation as everyone else will be dancing and-” He paused carefully selecting his next words. “And they’ll be getting further into their drink. It’ll not be a party suited for one so young.”

Then Fingon confidently moved forward and wrapped an arm round around his shoulders. “And I am confident that the other little ones that’d been scattered about will also be leaving for their beds as well.”

Finrod only raised a brow and gave Fingon a warning look. Though Fingon continued to ignore him and instead turned to Y/n who’d been oddly quiet, “You know Y/n, why don’t the two of us go get that pastry you wanted, hm? After all, it is your special day. You should have what you want!”

Fingon separated himself from him and took Y/n’s hand into his as Y/n squealed in excitement.

Finrod sighed, leveling Fingon with a disapproving glare though he made no move to stop him. His cousin smirked at him and wiggled his brows as he and Y/n left to travel further down the buffet table.

Finrod felt his mouth twitch as he fought a smile, happy to see the two spending time together, but instead he rolled his eyes. Watching Y/n as she giggled and hopped alongside her, undoubtedly, new favorite cousin. Thankfully the pair didn’t have to stray far and he could easily keep an eye on her and listen to their conversation with ease.

“My Prince.” Finrod blinked.

Behind him stood Ramtôr, a member of the Royal Guard and a long time friend. He was dressed in golden armor and he held a staff in his hand and a sword hung at his waist. His normally loose hair had been pulled back and he wore a bright smile.

Finrod felt a flood of elation race through him.“Ramtôr!” He beamed. In his excitement he had not realized that he had called Fingon’s attention to him and his cousin watched the newcomer with great interest.

Ramtôr bowed his head, “My Prince, I do not mean to intrude but I've been sent to inform you that his Highness, King Olwë has arrived and is waiting in the foyer.”

And with that Finrod felt his heart leap into his throat.

Masterlist

Little Dove: Prologue If the link doesn’t work please let me know!