Vana's Day by Tehta

“Lord Glorfindel!” The florist beamed. “What a surprise it is, seeing you here on Vana’s day! Unless--” Her smile faded. “Was there something wrong with some of your flowers?”

“No, no! They are all quite, er, lovely.”

And so they were, but… One did not want to think ill of one’s secret admirers, even if they did seem to share a common flaw. Two flaws, actually, if one included the obvious shortcoming of not being Ecthelion, but it would be very unfair to blame well-meaning strangers for something so far beyond their control. Still, what was firmly within their control was their choice of flower, and, well… Roses were traditional, of course, and yellow flowers were right there on his emblem, so yes, he could see how yellow roses must sound like a very clever choice, but, really -- why did they all have to be clever in exactly the same way, every year? Surely nobody could blame him for being a little sick of yellow roses by now, especially since he had never even liked them in the first place, preferring spring flowers.

Which brought him to the reason for his visit: that one lonely, delicate bouquet of white narcissus. The thought that one of his admirers had taste had filled him with an unnatural curiosity. But how to go about satisfying it? Should he make up a sad tale of star-crossed romance? Or, perhaps, offer some sort of discrete bribe? He took out the coin pouch he had hastily grabbed, and jiggled it in his hand.

“So!” The florist was wreathed in smiles, again. “Do you wish to make a purchase of your own, my lord? Finally, after all these years? It is a bit late in the day, of course, but a small surcharge will ensure a prompt delivery!”

Glorfindel felt tempted to try it, just to witness Ecthelion’s reaction--he had not seen him agitated in a while, and found he rather missed it--at least, until he noticed the inquisitive gleam in the florist’s eyes. It seemed likely that gossip about any eventual last-minute purchase of his would travel even faster than the purchase itself.

Well, if she enjoyed betraying confidences, all the better.

“Actually,” he said, “what I really wanted was information. One of the gifts I received seems… different, and I was curious--”

“About the identity of the secret admirer whose blooms have touched your heart?”

“Yes, and I--”

“The full name will cost you five Turgons. Or, if you enjoy a puzzle, you could pay two for a subtle hint, or three for a broad one. Now then...” The florist pulled out a large ledger. “A bunch of yellow roses, was it? Can you recall anything about it? The color of the ribbon, perhaps?”

“No, not the roses, thank you.” Glorfindel handed over five coins. “I am interested in the white narcissus.”

“White narcissus? For you, my Lord? I am afraid--” She flipped through the ledger frowning. “Oh, no, there it is: my son sold it this morning. To Lord Ecthelion.

“Oh, I know just how you feel!” she continued after a moment. “It is a bit of a surprise, certainly. Perhaps some sort of… warrior’s jest? A playful insult? If I recall correctly, they were rather… small, fragile flowers.”

Glorfindel felt pretty sure he managed to depart without saying anything odd or offensive, but in his shock he could not recall the details.

---

“Certainly, come in,” said Ecthelion. “Although I do have to leave in a moment: as I told you yesterday, I am performing at the palace, as part of--”

“You bought me flowers!”

Ecthelion blinked. “Yes. But how did you--”

“For Vana’s Day!”

“Right. I acted as a traditional secret admirer. Which is why I am wondering how--”

“What *I* am wondering about,” said Glorfindel very quickly, since Ecthelion’s opinion regarding bribes was well-known, “Is… Well, you have always been against such public displays of… well, of anything, really. So now I am a little… confused… and--”

“But it was not a public gesture, at all.” Ecthelion looked at the clock in his hall thoughtfully, then seemed to reach a decision. “I suppose I had better tell you the whole story. You see, it all started at last week’s rehearsal of the Vana’s Day orchestra. You know, the one with the problematic violin section, which I really need to--”

“Yes, I know--go on.”

“Very well. Anyway, during the usual post-rehearsal chat, several people complained that the romantic excitement and mystery of the Day had been ruined for them by the Florist’s Guild--who really sound most thoroughly corrupt. Apparently, they are no longer content with revealing the occasional secret identity after some heartfelt begging and a discrete bribe: they have some sort of… standardized pricelist for various degrees of betrayal.”

Here, he paused for a moment to gaze at Glorfindel, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Um,” said Glorfindel. “How… shocking?”

“Indeed. Anyway, I did not feel that this was right, so I decided to do something about it. And I had this rather clever idea.” He paused again, this time with a smile.

“Well, what was--” But before he could even finish the question Ecthelion clearly wanted him to ask, Glorfindel thought of the answer--and realized he had been a complete idiot. “I expect you offered to buy everyone’s flowers for them, all under your own name?”

“Exactly! It is the perfect way to ensure that those dishonest florists had no useful information to sell.”

Glorfindel watched him stand there looking smug, yet still undeniably beautiful. There was no cause to feel hurt, he told himself. He had known, for many years now, that this was what Ecthelion was like: thoroughly unromantic, a bit oblivious, and given to odd moral crusades. When he had woken that morning, it was with no special expectation of flowers; surely he would soon regain the same serene, unexpectant state.

Those flowers, though… They had still been rather unusual, whoever had sent them.

“I have just one more question,” he said. “When buying for me, why choose the white bouquet? Why not… yellow roses?”

”Yellow roses?” Ecthelion’s smile faded. “Come to think of it, the florist did insist that they were well-known to be your favourite, but I thought I knew better. Ah, I really am not very good at this kind of thing, am I?”

“But surely the buyer had specifically requested roses? They always seem to.”

“The buyer? What buyer?”

“Whoever it was that asked you to buy secret Vana’s Day flowers for me.”

“Whoever…” Ecthelion stared, frowning. Then his face relaxed, and a rather confusing sequence of emotions flashed across it. At last, he took a deep breath, and said, “You know, this day could prove very educational for you.”

“Educational?”

“In terms of moral lessons. You bribed a florist, which was wrong; and yet, apparently, you still have no idea who bought you those flowers.” He winced slightly. “Who failed to buy you your favourite flowers, I should say. Anyway, I really must go.”

“By all means, go,” said Glorfindel, even though the situation felt unresolved, somehow.

The white flowers were holding up rather well, Ecthelion noticed. Indeed, it was hard not to do so, since Glorfindel had chosen to place the small bouquet on a table in the center of the room. Meanwhile, his large collection of yellow roses languished in a corner, looking rather like a poorly-pruned shrubbery. Given that Glorfindel did not even like narcissus, this arrangement had to be a deliberate provocation. Most likely, an attempt to get Ecthelion to talk about their sender.

Well, Ecthelion had no intention of doing any such thing, not when he had already put so much effort into alternative--and, hopefully, more romantic--approaches.

Instead, he walked over to a window, and opened it. A draft of cool air brought with it an assortment of street noises, the most prominent of which was a pleasant, but untrained voice singing the familiar tune that had become so popular over the last few days.

Ecthelion had timed his window-opening gesture well: the singer was just reaching the refrain.

I bought the flowers, but I might regret it,
If when you hear this, you fail to get it.

"Oh, it’s that flower song again!” Glorfindel joined him at the window, a breeze ruffling his already messy hair. “I have been hearing it all over town. It must have struck a chord with quite a few people.”

Now, that was promising. "Must it?” asked Ecthelion. “And what sort of person might it strike a chord with, do you suppose?"

"The sort who has sent flowers to someone whose high moral standards preclude bribing florists?"

Ecthelion sighed.

"Please do not imagine that I am mocking your opinions," said Glorfindel, obviously misunderstanding. "I do see your point, about corruption in the guilds and so on. But it is only natural for people to desire to know, well, who desires them. One might say that it is a part of the universal search for truth and knowledge. You cannot object to that.”

“Well, I am all for truth and knowledge, of course, but I cannot help feeling that these noble concepts are somewhat devalued by being sold under the counter, like so many counterfeit Feanorian daggers. Besides, I have been told that plain truth is the enemy of romance, which requires… mystery.”

"Sure. Solvable mystery, though. With plenty of clues and hints.”

“I see.” Ecthelion thought for a moment. “In which case, I suppose I should mention that the song being sung outside was written by me.”

“Was it?” Glorfindel drew his robe tighter around himself, and leaned out of the window, listening. “I would never have guessed. It is far simpler than your usual compositions. So, why would you-- No, wait, I bet I can work out your reasons!"

“Can you?” asked Ecthelion.

“I expect you thought it might be of use to all those musicians you had tried to help, who have since discovered that they are getting no credit for their romantic gestures.” Glorfindel sent Ecthelion a sideways glance. “Since all the credit went to you, I mean.”

“I would not say I have received credit for-- Oh, you mean the cake.”

The cake had arrived at his office the day after Vana’s, heart-shaped and decorated with icing spelling out the words, ‘THANK YOU FOR THE FLOWERS!’ Ecthelion had attempted to quash rumour by immediately sharing the confection with his men. He had forgotten that guards were worse gossips than even musicians: less self-absorbed, he supposed.

“Yes, I certainly do mean the cake,” said Glorfindel, “and also that man in the sauna yesterday, the one who sent you all those steamy looks.”

Ecthelion decided to forego the obvious joke on the grounds of taste, saying instead, “That does not count. You are forever imagining that people are sending me suggestive looks in the Baths. However--” On second thoughts, the stories of the assorted gifts that had arrived at his house throughout the week was also best left unshared, as was the story of the angry letter denouncing his polyamorous nature both in Quenya and Sindarin. “However,” he continued, “yes, I will admit that my plot against the Florists' Guild was perhaps not as fully thought-out as it could have been. And that I did write this song to help someone in the Vana’s Day orchestra: the very musician who had sent you these flowers.”

“Well, perhaps I should visit this orchestra of yours,” said Glorfindel slyly. “And see who starts singing.”

“As cunning plans go, that is not a bad one,” said Ecthelion. “But it does have two small flaws. One, Vana’s Day has come and gone, so that particular orchestra has disbanded. And two, even if you were to attend some sort of orchestral reunion, and I were to notice you and start singing, people would probably assume I was leading a song rehearsal and join in.”

Glorfindel took a moment to consider this while a different singer's voice rose up, bright and clear.

Thinking the corny gesture would please you,
I sent those flowers, you clueless idiot.

“Wait… what?” asked Ecthelion. ”I never wrote that! I mean, it does not even rhyme.”

"Popular songs do tend to take on a life of their own," said Glorfindel. "As far as I can tell, this one has several versions, reflecting different moods and degrees of frustration on the part of the flower-sender. But you are right, I cannot imagine you singing this particular variant."

“Actually, I can. By which I mean," said Ecthelion, "that I can both imagine doing so, and actually do it. Right now, if you like.”

“Really?” Glorfindel drew back into the room to lean against the window-jamb. “I have not heard you sing in a while. Not in private, anyway. Go on, then.”

Ecthelion drew in a breath. But then, as he looked at Glorfindel’s eager, hopeful expression, framed as always by his incomparable hair, he felt his irritation dissipate. “I cannot,” he said. “Sorry. It would be just too impolite.”

“If the phrasing bothers you, then you could try one of your original verses. Or not. I really do not mind: it is not as if I am planning to pay much attention to the lyrics.”

“You… are not?”

“How could mere words, no matter how poetic, distract me from the sound of your voice?”

Oh, Eru! Ecthelion did not like to think of himself as a quitter, but… Surely, if a novel strategy keeps failing, it is only rational to fall back on something more familiar.

“Look here, Glorfindel,” he said. “Or rather, listen closely, and not to my voice but to my words: I sent those flowers.”

“I know, you were doing a favour for--”

“Not because I was doing a favour for some secret admirer, but-- I mean, yes, I was buying all those other bouquets, but then I started thinking about how most of the senders barely even know the recipients--they just find them pleasing to look at from afar, or something--and meanwhile I, who-- Anyway, I found myself getting angry.”

“Angry?” Glorfindel was looking at him a bit warily.

“Right, but I soon realized that I had the perfect alibi, because I had already bought so much, and I augmented the order. I am sorry, I know I should have gone with the yellow roses, only--”

“Only they are trite and cliched, so you picked something tasteful -- I really should have known, just based on that -- but, oh, Ecthelion!” Glorfindel’s eyes widened; his hand crept up to rest on his chest, above his heart. “So it was for me that you wrote that song!”

“Which is even more trite and cliched, I know, but I had to be sure that plenty of people--”

“No, no… I mean, I have always...” Glorfindel paused, struggling for words. “To have you write me a song: this has been a… dream, a fantasy of mine, for so long. Since-- Wait, there it is once more!”

He rushed back to the window, beyond which a second voice -- this one female, and rather affected -- was just beginning the first verse.

On Vana’s morning I had the notion
To with bright flowers show my devotion

Ecthelion watched him listen, torn between pride for having done something right, and shame for the mediocrity of the work he had -- apparently -- done it with, when he was capable of so much more.

Fortunately, Vana’s Day would come again.