Aodan

I stand among the booths of apples and pies, scanning the crowds for that singular white hair. Once in a while, a silver or flaxen-haired maiden wanders across the courtyard, but it's never her.

Trading chatter and compliments should keep me busy. There are many beautiful young she-elves in their finery and floral crowns to admire, but in between the happy neighbors and excited children coming and going from this booth, my eyes rove for the one girl. She should be adorned richly, in clothes designed specifically for her from weave to stitch, and I anticipate that it will flatter her handsomely. Even the crown would be made to order. Calibrachoa, I think, would suit her, or sage in bloom. Or will her family flaunt their resources with a crown of sunflowers? Very few of those grow up in the mountains.

Most of all, I wonder if she will be smiling, and if not, whether I can be the one to draw it from her.

“If you want to join in the dances, you should get going,” Mattan says from behind me, too knowing. “We can watch the stalls if it means I have a chance at grandkids from you.”

“Matta!” I grin at her, despite my pretend offense. Twenty years ago, I may have found that embarrassing, but at nearly two-hundred, I've long thought that it would be nice to settle down with a partner. Almost all of the young women of the nation have gathered in Ar-Etnfrandia to this terrace for the purpose of a dance. The least I can do is meet a few of them. And if I happen upon the Fyr-Ceann, then that's Beauty’s Wish. Or that's what I tell myself.

“Well, get going!”

“I will, thanks!!”

“Breeze’s bliss.” She shoos me off with a wave.

I plunge into the crowds, working my way between clusters of families and friends who congratulate each other on the season’s accomplishments. Sometimes, it seems like bragging contests. In the nicer families, everyone takes turns, and even the minor improvements are celebrated. When I notice an elf long in the nose discarding the drawing of a crying child in a firepit, I'm glad mine is one of the better.

I cut behind a large group circled around a game of cards and take another look around. A flock of young elfman swarm around a Fyr-Ceann, but not the one I search for. This one, Fyr-Ceann Silverstem, is the bubbly, musical type that most of the upper tiers of society worship. Her soft, round features and brown-gold hair seem descriptive of the kind of person she is: warm, bright.  Though only two decades my senior, she is highly accomplished in song and is likely considered Etnfrandia’s most eligible bachelorette.

Once, I had tried courting a she-elf with that kind of personality. Once had been enough. Every word from my mouth–joke or not–had been awarded the same bubbling laugh until I’d never known if she meant it. It was unnerving.

I keep scanning the crowds. If not for Fyr-Ceann Kitaryn, then I can spot her family. Or some other nice girl, I remind myself. My eyes land on a silver-haired official brooding from a secluded seat in the shadows. Ceann Willowbirth. He's not the only one with hair like polished silver, but his is the brightest and purest I've seen, and it contrasts with the depth of the shadows on his face. He glowers at the festival-goers as though fun itself is against Tradition and he is ready to prosecute them all.

I'm suddenly glad to only seek the one dance with the man’s daughter, not a partnership.

Ceann Willowbirth begins speaking to someone wearing an unseasonably warm cloak, and he shows no pleasure in doing so. He gestures for them to remove their hood with an angered flick of his wrist. Delicate hands move up to do so, unclasping the cloak and pulling it off.

When the hood drops away, Kitaryn’s hair seems to catch fire in the low rays of the sun, taking hues of purple, orange, and gold. My breath catches and my feet pull me forward before I realize it.

She wears a compact ring of stonecress around her head, its delicate pink blooms complimenting the natural blush of her lips and cheeks. Her dress is of a complementary purple with silvered trim and a pink sash. She's the picture of a fall dusk as the crisp cool settles in. Perfection. Even from halfway across the courtyard’s seating, I can tell.

Her athyr is pointing over her shoulder, and I spot an elfman around my age heading in their direction. The guy is also richly dressed, his tunic a rusted orange with dark trim that I’d bet gold is a deep green, the most traditional color combination of the season. Most prefer, like me, to wear the muted green and embroider their clothes in copper or yellow.

The Fyr-Ceann turns to follow her father’s gesture. Seeing the elfman as he approaches. Her face morphs into a genteel smile. He, of course, bows and I don't doubt he offers some very traditional compliment. She bobs her head, likely doing the same.

She holds out her hand to the elfman, allowing him her first dance of the night. I stop short. Of course she has other dances to offer. There is no reason I would be the first. There's hardly a reason for me to be on her agenda at all.

The man loops her arm carefully through his as they approach the dance floor. Once they find places alongside the other dancers, who are formed in long lines, I finally take a gander at the fellow’s face. It's dull; he's pale, angular, and stiff, and even his eyes are a foggy gray. Next to the crystalline color of Kitaryn’s eyes and the blush across her cheeks, he looks dead. Though they are likely of similar birth, hers doubtless nobler, I can't help but feel it's an ill match.

But it’s a proper one.

It shouldn’t matter. I know it shouldn’t matter that she dances with someone else first. I should have expected it. I tear my gaze from her and swivel it about the throng of observers. It’s too late to join this dance, but I can find a partner for the next one. I'll enjoy losing myself to the rhythms. There are innumerable young she-elves I've never met milling about.

One lass in a brown dress embroidered with yellow blushes under my gaze. Dressed like that, she likely comes from a small village and has dolled up an old daydress. Possibly even with her own hands, which would impress me. In mirror of the traditions of matronage, I will have to wait for her to offer a dance, but I smile to encourage her.

The lute strikes a four-count, and the dances begin.