The courtyard of the palace was quiet, the warm evening light casting a golden hue over the polished stone. Arinyanénar stood in the center, his cloak fluttering gently in the breeze. Aistalë leaned against a low wall nearby, watching him with a mix of curiosity and anticipation.
"Ready to see what sword dancing truly is?" Arinyanénar asked, a playful smirk tugging at his lips.
"I'm ready to be dazzled," Aistalë replied, folding her arms, her copper-red hair glinting in the sunlight.
With a subtle motion, Arinyanénar raised his hand. The golden blade of Amanarótar shimmered into being, catching the fading light and casting warm reflections onto the surrounding stone. He took a deep breath, centering himself, and then began.
At first, his movements were slow and deliberate, the blade gliding through the air with grace. He twirled the sword as if it weighed nothing, his feet gliding across the courtyard in perfect harmony with each motion. Gradually, the pace quickened, his steps becoming more intricate, the blade cutting through the air in sweeping arcs that seemed to shimmer with a fiery light.
He spun, leaped, and pivoted, every movement flowing seamlessly into the next. His hair caught the light as he moved, the faint golden flames of Amanarótar casting ethereal patterns on the ground. It was as if he was telling a story through the dance—one of strength, beauty, and defiance.
When he finally stopped, lowering the sword with a flourish, he was greeted with Aistalë's enthusiastic applause.
"That… was incredible!" she exclaimed, walking toward him. "I've never seen anything like it. It was like the blade was an extension of you."
"Thank you," he said, slightly breathless but grinning. "Now, it's your turn. I want to hear that voice of yours."
Aistalë hesitated, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "All right," she said after a moment, her cheeks tinged with a faint blush.
Standing where she was, Aistalë closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she began to sing, the air itself seemed to change. Her voice was rich and clear, weaving a melody that was both haunting and uplifting. It carried through the courtyard, the words in Sindarin painting vivid images of stars, love, and loss.
Arinyanénar felt a shiver run down his spine. Her voice had a power to it—different from Lúthien's, perhaps, but no less captivating. It seemed to touch something deep within him, stirring emotions he couldn't quite name.
When she finished, the last note lingering in the air, Arinyanénar was silent for a moment before breaking into applause.
"Aistalë," he said, his voice warm and full of admiration, "your singing is remarkable. I've heard the voices of Lúthien and even Melian, and yet yours stands among them. You have a gift."
Her cheeks flushed with color, and she looked away, smiling shyly. "Thank you, Arinyanénar. That means a lot."
He chuckled softly. "Now I'm even more eager to see your sculpting abilities. Shall we?"
They made their way to the sculpting workshop in the city. As they entered, the artisans inside immediately recognized their prince and greeted him with enthusiasm. Their curiosity was piqued when they saw Aistalë alongside him.
Arinyanénar gestured toward a workspace. "What will you sculpt?"
Aistalë tapped her chin in thought, then glanced at him with a teasing smile. "Why don't I sculpt you?"
He raised an eyebrow, amused. "Me? That seems a bit indulgent, doesn't it?"
She laughed softly. "You're the prince. Let me indulge you."
"Fine, but only if you sculpt me holding my sword. Make me look heroic."
"Heroic it is," she said with a grin, tying her hair back as she approached a block of marble.
For the next two hours, Arinyanénar stood nearby, occasionally stealing glances at her as she worked. Her hands moved with precision and grace, each motion deliberate. The block of marble gradually transformed, the rough edges giving way to a striking likeness of him, sword in hand.
When she finally stepped back, wiping her hands on her tunic, Arinyanénar approached to inspect her work. His eyes widened.
"It's… perfect," he said, awe in his voice. The sculpture captured him exactly as he was—every detail of his armor, the determined expression on his face, and the gleam of his sword. It was as if the stone itself had come alive.
Aistalë smiled, clearly pleased with his reaction. "Do you want to keep it?"
He shook his head. "No. Let the shop display it. I think the people will enjoy seeing their prince immortalized in stone."
The artisans around them murmured their agreement, clearly impressed by Aistalë's skill.
As they left the workshop and walked back to the palace, Arinyanénar glanced at her, a newfound respect and admiration shining in his eyes.
"You truly are talented," he said. "Your father wasn't exaggerating."
"And your sword dance was as dazzling as promised," she replied, smiling.
They walked in companionable silence, the sun setting behind them as they returned to the palace.