"There he is. What are you still doing here? We have all been waiting for you back at the house." He suddenly found himself in the middle of a lot of people consisting of his director Harry, the production manager, the costume designer and a couple more crews. They added a few more chairs at his table, ordered for drinks and made themselves at home. Inexorably he was pushed in a chair facing opposite to the bar and a voluble chatter started blossoming all around him. He looked over his shoulder but the girl had disappeared along with the frog prince. He craned his neck to scan the crowd from time to time but couldn't find her anymore.
The evening flowed with drinks and conversation on the rating of the show, the future plans for a possible second season, how hard it was find the right fabric which would glow in the candle light to some fabulous fashion shows were. It ended with everyone more or less tipsy and the topics had veered towards the local dialects and their effect on the modern names of the towns and hills.
His costume designer looked at Feanor.
"Speaking of Gaelic, does your name mean something in the language? Though it doesn't sound like it, but it is pretty unusual."
He wiggled his head from side to side, slightly drunk. "Nopes. Nothing to do with Gaelic. Actually it is elvish."
"Elvish?" exclaimed one.
"100%. Feanor was one of the middle earth elves. He was the high king of Noldor and the creator of the Silmarils." He declared gravely.
Harry was shaking his head. "You lost me."
"It's a character from JRR Tolkien. My parents were kind of super fans of the Lord of the Rings series. Though Feanor doesn't exactly appear in the LOTR books, but he is in Simlaril series."
"Sounds kind of fantastic. What does it mean anyway?"
"Not sure. He's had a lot of changes to his name you see. Though I think it means something like 'Spirit of Fire'."
"Weird." Harry muttered.
Feanor wiggled a finger at him. "Don't you dare insult my name. Do you know who he was? He was known variously as The mightiest in skill of Word and Hand and The Greatest of the Eldar in Arts and Lore." He finished proudly.
"Did you just make it all up?" Harry asked a few minutes later, emerging from a deep thought, which rather seemed alcohol induced. The others weren't faring very well either. All of them were more than a bit tipsy.
"Of course not." Feanor protested, stung. "You ignorant pig. It is all the books. Go read them. Thankfully, "he said, reaching for the bottle, "my fans are much better informed than you. Why, someone asked me today if I knew how many sons I am going to have?"
"So?" one asked, understandably bemused.
"I said seven, because in the books Feanor had seven sons, to which the guy replied hope I find my Nerdanel soon." He informed them superiorly.
"Now who the hell is Nerdanel?" asked the production manager, now quite drunk.
"Oh, she is going to be my second wife." He answered absently, intent on putting ice in the glass. "Though, I would be more than happy to get to my first."
"Not long now." Harry winked at him.
Feanor threw a mock salute at him and went back to his drink. He was being teased about Gweneth. Their friendship had been noticed and he knew that the crew thought they were dating. Though, how they were supposed to do that with the grueling schedules and being always surrounded by a sea of people, he had no idea.