Disclaimer: I don't own anything. No disrespect to Tolkien or his characters are intended.

Shy

Part 1: A Dancing Lesson

"An elf who does not dance has let part of himself die."

Elrohir flinched slightly at these words from his teacher. Then tried to stop. Elves do not flinch. It surprised him how many of his old habits carried forward, even after the change. Having the human part of himself changed by the Valar had been an unnerving experience, but necessary, they assured him. Nothing mortal can survive in the immortal realm. Physically, he felt as if his whole body had had its strings re-tuned. But it was taking some getting used to. He looked away from his teacher's eyes. He had failed again.

"No, do not look away. You must learn to dance. It is unnatural for an elf not to dance."

Elrohir allowed himself a shallow sigh. It was so much easier for him, with his effortless grace and dazzling beauty that so reminded him of Galadriel. He had never had any different awareness of himself. There was a prolonged silence and Elrohir realized that his teacher was studying him. Grey eyes met the sapphire blue ones and were held there for a long minute.

Abruptly, the teacher stepped behind him and clasped both his upper arms. Elrohir felt his centre of balance shift slightly onto his toes.

"Better. Though how you expect me to follow your movements properly while you are so heavily clothed is a mystery to me." There was a hint of derision in the teacher's voice.

Elrohir stared directly in front of himself, feeling a stab of discomfort. He began to regret agreeing to this 'physical therapy' as part of his healing. The other elf's ease in little more than breaches unsettled him. Yet since coming to Lorien and Valinor he had noticed that many of the others who sought healing also went lightly clad. It was all so easy and yet so difficult.

He heard a voice at his ear. "You can no longer use your Edain heritage as an excuse. You are fully elf now. And elves dance."

Elrohir shuddered and tried to pull away. This degree of closeness from a near stranger still felt awkward to him. Perhaps he was not ready for this…

"You are ready. And I am no stranger – I am your very own kin. Your mother's mother's brother. I gave all I had so that your forefather could be born. You do not need to fear that I will harm you." The other's tone was injured or at least feigned to be. Elrohir felt a pang of regret. Finrod, known as 'Felagund' and 'Friend of Men' and brother to Galadriel, did deserve better than mistrust from him.

"It is a strange thing to get used to a body that is different from before," he offered by way of apology. "My limbs feel different. Better and stronger, but strange."

His companion nodded, his thick hair bouncing.

"That is quite understandable and reasonable. But it is not the reason that you do not dance. Did you not dance as a child?"

"Yes, but childish dancing is not suitable for adults."

"Why not?"

Elrohir thought for a moment. "An adult would look clumsy and silly dancing like a child. Others would mock him."

His kinsman nodded. "Has anyone mocked your dancing in the past?"

"No, but I expect that they might. I cannot match the skill of the elves – other elves – in this art."

"Who will see you?"

Elrohir glanced around. They were alone. If anyone was hiding and watching, they were hiding well. But there were plenty of trees that might conceal an elf skilled in wood lore…

"There is no one else here but you and I. Do you expect me to mock you?"

"No. But I may disappoint you with my lack of skill or speed. I may not be able to keep up with you." He heard his voice drop. That was another of his old habits. He scolded himself silently.

The other pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. "We shall see. You are able to read my surface thoughts as well as I read yours? Good. Then you should have no trouble following my movements. I will lead and you follow."

Elrohir felt a sharp jab of the heel of his teacher's hand in the centre of his back, causing him to stand tall. He grunted in protest, but hands grasped his shoulders and pulled them back so that he felt as if his chest was sticking out unnaturally. He spread his arms automatically, but his balance did not need assistance. Swift hands gathered his hair into a horse tail. He gasped as the other tied it with a leather thong, an unbidden tear rising. His hair was released slowly.

"Did I tug your hair too hard? Forgive me." There was a softness in his teacher's voice now.

"No," Elrohir replied. Old memories swam to the surface. He pushed them down. "I am unused to anyone touching my hair."

"Then who styles your hair for you? Or rather, who did before you passed west?"

"My brother. But that is different."

There was a small chuckle. "You think I am so unskilled in this minor art form? I have practiced on my own brothers, millennia before you were born. Or is it a custom that has died out in Middle Earth?"

Why must he ask so many uncomfortable questions? "No… That is…I did not concern myself overly with my hair. There was work to be done…"

"That is not the real reason."

Arms circled his chest from behind. The tear that he had held on the edge of his lashes escaped and landed on the other's forearm. After a long time, his kinsman spoke.

"When was the last time you fell behind your elf-kin in skill or speed?"

"When I was a youth."

"When was the last time anyone mocked you"

"When I was a youth."

"When was the last time you danced?"

"When I was a youth."

"When was the last time someone tugged your hair?"