A Rose By Any Other Name by pandemonium_213

The doorbell jingled once. Twice. Then over and over until it stopped at fifteen chimes, and the door clicked open. Elrond had no need of his dawdling butler to announce who must now be standing in the foyer. He set aside the thick book of Vanyarin verse extolling a rare species of violet that grew on the western slopes of Taniquetil. Elrond had not imagined that one hundred and forty-four lengthy lays could be written about a single type of flower, but there it was. The book was popular among the literati of Tol Eressëa, and Celebrían insisted that he read it. Just as well that he was interrupted.

With a grunt and a sigh, he pushed himself up from the settle. Its soft cushions were reluctant to release him. His right knee was still stiff, and his left arm throbbed for a moment, but he willed the dull pain away. He took his time ambling down the dim corridor to the entryway.

There stood his guest: the sunlight streaming in from the open door turned the famous hair bright gold. Clad in a fine white linen chiton that reached past his knees and cinched by a hammered gold and bronze belt around his waist, Glorfindel looked cooler than he had any right to be on this hot afternoon. Tucked under his left arm was a large soft package, wrapped in dun-colored cloth and tied with multi-colored string.

"Good afternoon, Elrond." His smile was bright as the day. That and the parcel aroused Elrond's suspicions.

"Hullo, Glorfindel," Elrond said. "Or is it Laurefin this week?"

"Doesn't much matter. Laurefin, I suppose, although my name is more often 'Mud' these days."

"Laurefin-Mud then. I wasn't expecting you, but please do come in. What brings you here?

"Oh, just thought I'd drop in on an old friend. I'm rattling around in that house."

So he is still alone. The subtle dark smudges beneath Laurefin's eyes and the hint of dejection in his bearing contradicted the sunny smile plastered on his face. A lonely and bored Laurefin was a hazardous beast as Elrond had discovered during the wild expedition into the vast desert of Valinor. Or more recently, during that trip to the white sand beaches along the south coast of Tol Eressëa where wild and rolling surf pounded the shore. Elrond's arm twinged again at the thought of being ground into that white sand by those waves. Still, he could not help but sympathize with his old friend. Laurefin's life had been fraught with difficulties since his arrival on the Lonely Isle.

"Would you like tea? Or something stronger?"

"Stronger. Do you have any of that nice white wine? You know. The one with the funny name. Spider's something?"

"Spider's Song. Yes, I do. Come. We'll sit in the garden. Calengal!" Elrond called to the butler. "Have the kitchen send up a carafe of chilled Spider's Song with two glasses and some cheese and biscuits, if you would."

Elrond led his friend down the corridor and out to the west-facing veranda, shaded by a pergola through which wisteria vines entwined. The veranda overlooked an expanse of gardens where the gentle babble of fountains and warbling birds provided a song as lovely as that of a harpist. A male peacock and his two hens strolled across the neatly clipped grass near a border of Elrond's prized roses. Laurefin sat down on one of the cushioned settles. He spotted the book of Vanyarin poetry lying on Elrond's side table.

"You're actually reading that monstrosity?"

"I am attempting to," Elrond said, easing himself onto the inviting cushions. "I must admit it's slow going."

Laurefin kicked off his sandals and stretched out his legs. "Stars save us from this obsession with things Vanyarin. I tell you, Elrond, I had my fill of it when I was a boy."

Before Laurefin could launch into one of his childhood tales from the court of Indis and Finwë, a kitchen maid arrived, bearing a tray with the wine, biscuits and cheese. She poured the green-gold wine into the crystal glasses, and Elrond took a sip.  It was fruity but with a subtle note of pleasant bitterness and a hint of effervescence, perfect for the sultry afternoon.

"Thank you, Millas. You may go now. I'll ring if we need anything else."

The maid responded with a quick curtsy and left them alone on the veranda.

"So here we are. What do you have there?" Elrond eyed the parcel that Laurefin had placed next to the tray on a low table.

"It goes with this."

He extended a cream-colored envelope of expensive vellum. Elrond took it and examined the superb calligraphy on the front. Both Laurefin and Elrond's names were written in purple ink. Elrond had no need to see the broken seal on the back to know who had sent it. 

 Laurefin leaned forward, his brows raised with expectation. "Aren't you going to open it?" 

"Yes, of course. I was just admiring the handiwork."

"It's very nice, isn't it?"

Elrond nodded in agreement, for it was very nice, and extracted the card within. As he expected, it was an invitation to yet another party at the House of the Hundred Chimneys. It read:

Gilfanon, Lord of Kortirion Province and Master of the House of the Hundred Chimneys

Requests your presence to celebrate the blooming of his most beloved rose Yavanno Tussa.

Guests of honor: Lord Rilyazin, Ambassador Supreme of Valmar,

And his wife, Lady Tárazmë.

Entertainment to be provided; Refreshments will be served.

Like all of Gilfanon's invitations, it seemed so innocuous, but Elrond knew better. "Refreshments" was a spectacular understatement for the lavish spreads of food and copious flow of wine and spirits that Gilfanon offered his guests. And who knew what manner of outrageous entertainment the host had in mind? The most recent diversion – something Gilfanon had called "a snipe hunt" -- had resulted in the Lord of Rómambor banning Gilfanon from his land holdings for a term of half-a-yén.

Laurefin looked at him expectantly. "Well? Shall we go?"

Elrond folded the invitation. "I don't know. I am expecting Celebrían to return from her mother's within the next few days."

"Visiting Our Lady of the Golden Battle-Axe, eh?"

"Yes. I wish Celeborn would make up his mind and take a ship before it's too late. His presence might mellow Galadriel's temperament of late. Or maybe not. But I really shouldn't complain. Galadriel can be a good sort."

Laurefin eyed him meaningfully. "Yes, there are much worse in-laws than Artanis."

Elrond returned his friend's look in kind. "You win in that department."

"Such a victory! But don't change the subject. The party is only for one evening. Besides, Celebrían adores Gilfanon. She won't mind."

"She adores him less after the desert incident. What of Mélamírë? Will she attend?" Elrond felt a pinch of guilt after he asked the leading question. Laurefin's face fell, confirming Elrond's suspicions. "She is still with Nerdanel, isn't she?"

"No, not any longer."

"Go on. . ."

"I received a letter from her yesterday. She travels to the Halls of Mandos."

"What?"

"Yes, she has been summoned. Olórin believes it is time for her to speak to. . . well, to you know who. He has suggested that I come, too, but I am not ready for that ordeal. Not yet."

"I don't blame you," Elrond said, although he secretly harbored a crazy notion that he might have the opportunity to meet the infamous fallen Maia, now imprisoned in the Halls of Mandos after surrendering himself to the Valar in what apparently was sincere repentance (although no one really believed it). His conversation with Annatar many years ago on the coast north of Lindon hadn't been so bad, but he had confessed that to no one other than Gil-galad, who had yet to rejoin the living. "Do you think she is ready?"

"She's not here, is she? So you see, I am free to attend the party."

Despite his misgivings, Elrond's resolve wavered when he looked at Laurefin, whose pleasant expression masked his misery. He and his wife had come to the Blessed Lands seeking peace and healing, just like so many others of the Firstborn, but they had not yet found such.

~*~

Elrond well understood why Laurefin and Mélamírë at last sought refuge in Tol Eressëa. He knew that given their circumstances, they would not be able to remain in Middle-earth for many more long-years. From the moment of their children's birth, they were doomed to suffer losses at least as profound as those of Elrond and Celebrían. Elrond's heart would never find healing of the irrevocable separation from Arwen. Elladan and Elrohir's fates were still far from certain, and that uncertainty loomed heavily over Elrond and his wife. But through fate or accident, no one really knew (although many suspected machinations on the part of the Valar), every one of Mélamírë and Laurefin's seven children had been born mortal; they had no choice given to them as Elrond's sons and daughter had.

Elrond recalled the quiet evenings after Laurefin and Mélamírë's arrival when the couple told him of what had transpired in the years since Elrond had left Middle-earth, a remarkable account that took several days in the telling and left Elrond and Celebrían gaping.

They spoke of the rapid rise of New Ost-in-Edhil and the principality of Eregion, granted by King Elessar to Laurefin and Mélamírë's children in gratitude for Mélamírë's forging of Andúril. The revitalized country, now a land of Men (and several colonies of adventurous Hobbits) with "Elvish contours," as its residents described it, was built with the strength of Haradren immigrants that Fëaril, prince of the realm — and the eldest son of Laurefin and Mélamírë — had encouraged to come to the North and seek new lives. The prosperity of Eregion burgeoned, thanks to the labors of its diverse peoples and to the riches from the northern mines deep in the roots of the Misty Mountains, the result of Mélamírë's shrewd negotiations with Durin's Folk.

While sipping cordials and staring into the cheerful fire that crackled in Elrond's hearth, far removed from the strife of Middle-earth, Laurefin and Mélamírë alternated telling of the citizens of Eregion's discontent with the Reunited Kingdom's increasingly onerous taxes and immigration laws, enacted by King Eldarion's Council, led by the powerful Lord of the Exchequer. Discontent became widespread anger, which flared into outright rebellion, fomented by Prince Fëaril's fiery oration.

While nightingales sang in the twilight woods of Elrond's gardens, Laurefin and Mélamírë spoke of the Six Day War when the rebels of New Ost-in-Edhil were besieged, but the forces of the Reunited Kingdom were beaten back by the fearsome weapons invented by Fëaril's sister Curuven and her smiths.

"Curuven always loved fireworks," Laurefin had mused. "Who knew that she would apply the principle in such a devastatig way? I must say, though, she is clever."

"Fiendishly clever," added Mélamírë. "Fortunately, King Eldarion had the good sense to at last rid himself of the Lord of the Exchequer and cow his Council into submission. A treaty was drawn up, and Eregion became an independent country, a republic as Fëaril names it. An elected council rules now."

Laurefin nodded in acknowledgment of his wife. "Yes, he has set aside his title of prince and has been elected Principal Magistrate of the republic."

Celebrían's elegant brows knitted in what Elrond well knew was an expression of skepticism. "So he is still a prince, just with another title."

"His is no longer a hereditary position," Laurefin explained.  "Another may be elected in his place, one who may be from our line or from another's. Unfortunately, he has another title, a darker one…"

"…Kinslayer." Mélamírë finished her husband's words, as she so often did, and then would say no more.

Thus Laurefin and Mélamírë had at last departed Middle-earth, leaving behind their mortal descendants to exalt or destroy the world of Men with their clever ideas and inventions, and sought healing in Tol Eressëa. But the Blessed Lands proved not to be quite the balm they had expected. They stepped off the ship right into a steamy conflict of another sort.

When they arrived, Laurefin's dear friend Ecthelion was among the many waiting at the docks to greet them. The former Lord of the Fountain, reincarnated and "retired," as he called it, had settled in the charming city of Kortirion as the proprietor of a shop that sold all manner of musical instruments. The Magic Flute proved to be a gathering place not only for musicians, but also artists and poets. Elrond had gravitated to the shop and took Frodo and Bilbo Baggins there on occasion while the hobbits still lived. So he became friendly with the flautist-shopkeeper, once known as the slayer of Gothmog the Terrible, but now the purveyor of high quality musical instruments and refined culture.

When Elrond broke the news to Ecthelion that Laurefin, his friend and former lover, had married, he took it surprisingly well, or so Elrond thought. Certainly, their awkward but heartfelt reunion at the docks of Tol Eressëa was a good sign.

At first, Ecthelion, Laurefin and Mélamírë were determined to make the best of the situation, and indeed, a warm friendship among the three was quickly forged. However, Elrond often thought their smiles and laughter seemed forced. His perception was borne out during that ill-fated holiday to the southern beaches of Tol Eressëa when the growing tension underlying the friendship of the three had at last exploded. 

Elrond's knee throbbed at the recollection of that holiday. Laurefin had taken up the sport of wave-dancing during his frequent visits to Umbar, the homeland of Fëaril's wife. He had been delighted to find the same sport thriving in Alqualondë. Laurefin suggested the holiday and even wrote a formal note of invitation on expensive stationery, embossed in gold leaf with the symbol of Laurefin and Mélamírë's house: the Fëanorian Star superimposed on the rayed Sun of the House of the Golden Flower, or the Sun superimposed on the Star, depending on whether Mélamírë or Laurefin was describing the emblem. Elrond's prescience had buzzed like an insistent fly, letting him know this was a bad idea.

"My dear," he had confided to Celebrían privately, "this is a bad idea. I have a feeling about this."

"How often is your foresight correct?" Celebrían asked pointedly. "Fifty percent of the time? You may as well toss a coin, my love. Don't be such a stick in the mud. We are going."

Celebrían, always the peacemaker, wrote a note to Laurefin, telling him that the holiday was a splendid notion and completely ignored Elrond's further pleas to simply decline. Within a few days, wave-dancing boards arrived from Alqualondë and off they went: Elrond, Celebrían, a flock of servants, musicians, cooks, tents, tapestries, rugs, cutlery, crystal, chests of foodstuffs, casks of drink, Mélamírë, Laurefin…and Ecthelion.

In spite of Celebrían's pressure to go on this holiday, Elrond had no intention of wave-dancing. To his credit, Ecthelion had been able to resist.

"After crossing the Helcaraxë and dwelling in that hellhole called Beleriand, I have experienced enough adventure to last several lifetimes, let alone two, thank you very much," the darkly handsome Noldo said. "I am content to sit here in the shade with these lovely ladies whilst any would-be falmarin goes and breaks his foolish neck."

Elrond thought Ecthelion's adamant refusal to wave-dance, despite Laurefin's dares and pleas, to be most sensible. However, the demon-imp of adventure who lurked in the shadowy recesses of Elrond's mind, the little voice that so often prodded him to take a chance and step outside of his long role as the kind, wise and too often staid Peredhel, thought otherwise. Thus he found himself teetering on a slick board and flying over the water. He was a clumsy wave-dancer, to be sure, but he had to admit it was exhilarating.

Laurefin, on the other hand, rode the waves like some Fay born of the sea, his naked body and golden hair gleaming in the sunlight, truly a glorious sight to behold. Ecthelion must also have thought Laurefin glorious, too, for his body gave away his appreciation of his former lover. Mélamírë, bringing refreshments for herself, Celebrían and Ecthelion, noticed his obvious state of arousal as he watched her husband dance on the waves. This observation had erupted into a heated exchange of accusations followed by Mélamírë losing her temper and throwing chilled spirits and pineapple juice into Ecthelion's face.

That was Celebrían's account at any rate. Elrond had no idea what had happened because Laurefin, who had looked up to see his wife and friend in altercation, had become distracted, allowing his board to slam into Elrond's, flipping him into the surf that tossed him about like an empty seashell before grinding him into the sand. The next thing Elrond knew, he was hacking up seawater while being hauled from the surf with a broken arm and twisted knee. Shortly thereafter, Mélamírë fled to Nerdanel, Celebrían clucked disapprovingly of the men involved (including Elrond), and Ecthelion retreated to his music shop in Kortirion, refusing to speak to Laurefin. Meanwhile, Elrond's demon-imp of adventure, who had provoked him into traveling into the deep desert with Laurefin and Gilfanon and later, into dancing on waves, was uncharacteristically silent. 

~*~

"Elrond! Wake up! You're dreaming."

He jerked his head with a start and focused on the peaceful scene of the garden. Laurefin's blurry image resolved: he lounged on the garden settle like a great gold and white cat.

"Ah. Sorry, Laurefin. This wine is heady stuff, and it is so warm today. As I was saying, I couldn't possibly…"

"Of course, you can possibly. What's stopping you? Come now. Admit it. You're as bloody bored as I am in this place. I am confident that Gilfanon has the cure. He always does."

"Well…"

"It's only for one evening. Nothing like that escapade in the desert. What could possibly happen that would be so dire?"

"What could possibly happen? Even the most benign of Gilfanon's parties turn into these wild romps. Anything could happen!"

"Oh, do come! I really must attend. You see, Rilyazin is my second cousin, once removed, and Grandmother has charged me with passing along a gift to him while he is here. There's no denying Grandmother, I fear."

Elrond knew he had the right of it. Indis continued to wield great influence over her family. He studied Laurefin's face. His friend's sea-grey eyes silently pleaded with him. That Laurefin desperately needed this distraction was abundantly clear.

"Very well," Elrond sighed in resignation. "I suppose I can attend."

Laurefin brightened immediately. "Splendid! Just splendid! Oh, Gilfanon requests that we wear these." Laurefin leaned forward to pick up the parcel from the low table where he had placed it.

"What are 'these?'" 

"He didn't say. Shall we open the package and see? Here…" Laurefin extended the parcel to Elrond. It was heavier than he expected. "You open it."

Elrond unfolded the small but sharp penknife that he always kept tucked into his belt and cut the gaily colored string. He carefully laid back the folds of the dun-colored cloth to reveal fabric woven in an extraordinarily gaudy pattern: green, red and gold stripes crisscrossed a field of dark blue. He lifted the garment, made of thick wool with many pleats and folds.

"Stars' blood! What are these things?"

Laurefin leaned forward to pick up the garment's mate, very similar but with a different pattern: gold and orange stripes crossing a field of grass-green wool. "Looks to be some sort of kilt. They are...vibrant. The pattern is called 'plaid,' I believe." Laurefin stood up and held the kilt against his body. "And so short!"

In fact, the skirt was scandalously short. The hem ended inches above Laurefin's knees. Elrond couldn't help but stand up himself, align the waistband of the garment against his body and take a guess at where the hem struck his legs. It was no better.

"I cannot wear this!"

"Why not? You and I both have shapely legs. Show them off, I say!"

"Maybe at the beach or at the bathhouses, but not at a party!"

"Be a sport, Elrond. Gilfanon says these are all the rage among the men of Tirion. I'll wear mine if you wear yours."

Elrond's demon-imp stirred, stretched and yawned.

Chapter End Notes

Glorfindel = Laurefin per JRRT's notes, see Parma Eldalamberon 17.

Yavanno Tussa = Yavanna's Bush (thanks, Darth! :^))

I use yén and long-year (144 solar years) interchangeably.

Falmarin – Q., sea-spirit.

In the Pandë!verse, which takes a humanistic and even humane view of both the Good Guys and the Bad Guys, Sauron does not become "a spirit of malice that gnaws itself in the shadows" as Gandalf foresaw, but instead allows the uncorrupted (well, make that less corrupted) part of himself to be bound into an otherwise benign ring that Gandalf, with full knowledge of who is in this benign ring, then transports to Valinor for judgment.

The question regarding the mortality of Laurefin and Mélamírë's descendants has been posed to me on a number of occasions, so it bears some discussion here.  I have not written a story that explains this in detail (just yet) because it's something of a mystery to them, too. However, just like parents in our primary world who give birth to children whose traits are not quite what were expected, they love them regardless.

There is an underlying biology at work here. In the Pandë!verse, mortal Men and Elves are very closely related: both races are human (consistent with Tolkien's writings). In my 'verse, for elven children (with indefinite longevity) to be born, both parents must be elven. A mortal and elven pairing invariably results in children who are mortal: the default setting. That is, unless they are descended from Eärendil who returned a much coveted Silmaril to Valinor. That line gets special dispensation.

Now Glorfindel is an elf, of course, but bear in mind that in one version of Tolkien's writings, he was reincarnated. That's the version I go with in the Pandë!verse.  In the latter setting, when Glorfindel is reincarnated, the Valar, who are known demiurges (and Tolkien said as much), apparently fiddled about (genetically speaking) with his germ line. Or it may have been an oversight during the reincarnation process rather than deliberate. But the outcome is the same: the gene cluster in his germ line (gametes a.k.a. sperm in the male) required to orchestrate the biological processes that give rise to indefinite longevity in the Elves is either missing, or more likely reverted back to wild type, i.e., default mortality gene sequence.  Thus his children are mortal. He may also more fertile than many elven-men as a result.

Chimneys of Hampton Court Palace 

Glorfindel and Elrond...in kilts!  by Robinka.

The day of Gilfanon's party on The Occasion of the Blooming of His Most Beloved Rose, Yavanno Tussa (a name that sent Laurefin into fits of laughter every time he said it, which was often), was the hottest yet of the heat wave that blasted the usually temperate Tol Eressëa. When the coppery sun dipped low in the western sky, the sultry air became marginally cooler. The only breeze was that created by the rush of the open carriage, drawn at a good clip by a perfectly matched pair of bay trotters. Tiny bells, woven not only into the black manes of the horses but also into the plaits of the driver, jingled merrily as the vehicle sped along the road to Tavrobel.

Elrond picked at the scratchy fabric of his kilt, which clung limpet-like to his thighs. The wool made his sweaty skin itch abominably, but it would not do to stoop to the indignity of scratching himself. Instead, he fidgeted, unable to find a comfortable position. He spread his legs wide, hoping to catch a whiff of breeze under the sweltering garment. Elrond was sure that the silk shirt he wore beneath his dress jacket would be soaked through by the time they arrived at the House of the Hundred Chimneys.

Even Laurefin was feeling the heat, judging by the rivulets of sweat that trickled down his forehead. Elrond resisted the urge to stare at his friend, who sat facing him on a seat upholstered with wine-red leather, and holding a small beribboned package on his lap.   Elrond looked away quickly.  He still had not recovered from Laurefin's startling appearance.

Laurefin, who lived no more than a half-league distant from Elrond in a manse that he and his wife leased from Findaráto, had arrived to collect him in this tasteful carriage: all dark wood with touches of gilt decoration, but thoroughly modern with its elliptical hinges, drawn by the equally tasteful matched horses. Even the driver, a wiry little fellow named Cailor, was elegant in his green and gold livery and neatly plaited hair. It was certainly a far cry from the magenta contraption and horrific beasts that had taken them deep into the desert. But Laurefin, standing there at the threshold, was far from tasteful, at least to Elrond's eyes. In fact, he was shocking.

His ensemble was outlandish enough: Laurefin had topped the green kilt with a white silk shirt and a trim black velvet jacket nearly identical to the one that gripped Elrond's diaphragm. A froth of white ruffles spilled from the collar of the shirt over the breast of the jacket. Elrond had to admit that Laurefin's garb was no more outrageous than his own, save that his own shirt had more subdued ruffles. Like Laurefin, he also wore cream-colored silk stockings with shiny black leather shoes. An expanse of bare skin was exposed between the tops of the stockings and the hem of the short kilt.

Elrond had stopped tugging at the kilt long before Laurefin arrived, resigned that he had no hope of covering his bare knees. During a particularly vigorous bout of yanking on the kilt, he was certain that Calengal, who served as his valet as well as chief household butler, had stifled a laugh.

"Just a frog in my throat, my lord. Just a…uh, uh, a frog." Calengal had quickly turned away.

Laurefin, upon seeing Elrond's discomfort, had once again reassured him that all the fashionable men of Tirion-on-Túna wore the same or variations thereof. But far more disconcerting than his dress was Laurefin's shorn hair. 

Elrond's first response, which he did not voice, was "Who died?" In Middle-earth, many elven-men cut their hair short when mourning the dead. Instead, he blurted a less awkward, if inelegant, "What have you done with your hair?"

"Left it with the barber," Laurefin had replied, his fingers raking back the gold shock of hair draped over his forehead. "I expect the rascal will sell it to some wig merchant. It's too bloody hot to have that mane trailing down my back so I decided to have it cut.  Most of the Men in the Southlands of Middle-earth wear their hair short. Makes perfect sense to me. It will always grow back."

Although Laurefin's hair had been clipped close to the sides of his head, the barber had left it longer on top. The forelock bounced jauntily with every sway of the carriage. Maybe short hair isn't such a bad idea, Elrond thought as his own thick fall of hair stuck to the back of his neck.

Elrond's knee twinged when the carriage hit a bump. He massaged the sinews, and the discomfort evaporated, but he continued rubbing his hand over the almost healed area just to be sure. He looked at both his knees. The skin exposed by the kilt was very pale, which made the coarse dark hair on his legs stand out even more.

"Shouldn't we have shaved our legs?" Elrond had asked earlier, wondering about the etiquette of wearing short kilts and wincing at the thought of scraping a straight-edged razor, if he could even find one outside of the barber's shop, across his knees.

"Why? Are we Vanyar?" his companion sneered. "Are we not Noldorin men who should be proud of our leg hair?" The fuzz on Laurefin's knees was less obtrusive, being lighter in color, and appeared as spun gold in the sunlight. Leave it to Laurefin to have good leg hair.

Woods and meadows, villages and farms, all flew past Laurefin, Elrond and their hairy knees as the carriage sped along the road, relatively smooth, save for the occasional pothole. However, when they approached the town of Tavrobel, their progress slowed to a snail's pace. Other carriages and coaches, bearing passengers destined for Gilfanon's party, clogged the main street of the town. Their own carriage lurched along, stopping and then pulling forward a foot or three, halting, then lurching forward again to make maddeningly slow progress. Drivers, egged on by their passengers' impatience and their own, jangled the large silver or brass bells hanging by their seats and shouted. Sweat streamed down Elrond's back. Laurefin drummed his fingers on the leather seat.

At last, the carriage jerked forward and continued to move. As they inched out of the town, Elrond saw the reason for the jam: a disabled vehicle was pulled off to the side of the road. The horses had been unhitched and grazed unperturbed on the strip of green grass between the road and the tended woods beyond while the driver and another man, possibly a wainwright, worked on the broken axle of the carriage. The passengers were nowhere to be seen. Elrond guessed that another group of guests on the way to the party had accommodated them.

"Stars save us from gawkers!" Laurefin declared as he craned his neck to look at the disabled carriage.

They reached the long stone bridge of many arches that spanned the confluence of the Gruir and Afros rivers. The carriage wheels rumbled and the horses' shod hooves clip-clopped with sharp retorts upon the stone pavers. Elrond leaned against the side of the carriage to look ahead.

Peeking above the tops of the trees ahead were a few red chimneys of their destination, but these disappeared when the road dove through a cutting in a hill; moss-covered stones reinforced the black soil on either side. The air was blessedly cool and damp with a pleasant earthy scent. The road rose gradually and emerged to become flat, running through an allée formed by tall elms whose graceful branches arched overhead. Elrond breathed in the green scent of the leaves and exhaled, feeling refreshed. Even the kilt was less scratchy.

The carriage emerged from the allée into the soft light of early evening. Before them lay Gilfanon's estate: wide trimmed lawns of green grass were artfully dotted here and there with copses of trees and beyond loomed the great manor house, its red bricks burnished by the last light of the day. Gardens could be seen as well – some tended to achieve a studied wildness, others designed with precise geometries. Several white deer — five does and a stag — grazed in a nearby meadow.

"How does Gilfanon keep the bloody things out of his gardens?" Laurefin said, squinting suspiciously at the deer. He turned and glanced at Elrond's hand resting on the leather of the seat. "You know, Elrond, after that bauble on your finger was rendered impotent, the truce with Rivendell's deer was broken. They started raiding the kitchen gardens almost as soon as you left for the Havens."

"Surely the dogs would have kept them off."

"The dogs? No, they were all asleep in the stables or the house. We spoiled them terribly. Mélamírë thought it unfair to the dogs or any of the servants to keep watch all night on the gardens, and she had a soft heart toward the deer because the children liked them so much, at least until the beasts attacked her tomatoes. Then she declared war and came up with a solution."

"Which was?"

"Let's just say it was something like the Girdle of Melyanna. Just at a smaller scale. You don't want to know the details, trust me."

"Perhaps I do." Elrond's curiosity was piqued: the notion of a small scale Girdle of Melian around the kitchen gardens of Rivendell amused him, and he suspected it had amused the Istyanis, too.

Laurefin arched a chestnut-brown brow. "Mélamírë had the entire household drinking vats of tea, which, as you might expect, resulted in a copious flow of urine. We had to, uh . . . collect our piss in silver buckets over the course of two days."

"Urine as deer repellant then? That's not so unusual," said Elrond. "The hobbits used their own urine for such purpose around their gardens. Samwise Gamgee could positively wax poetic on the subject."

"True enough, but Mélamírë did something else to the urine. Enhanced the effect, she said. Don't ask me exactly she did. Something to do with the deep arts. When I pressed her about it, all she would say is that it was a trick she had learned from her father.  She called it the 'Scent of Thû.'  That's all I needed to know at that point. It worked though. Beautifully. The deer kept their distance, and the vegetables and fruits flourished. Makes one wonder how exactly Melyanna achieved her barrier, eh?"

Elrond felt his eyes widen. That his wonderful gardens had been attacked by deer and then guarded by a spell having its origins in the arts of the Abhorred troubled him in no small way. Equally unsettling was the intimation that his great-great grandmother, a full-blooded Fay, might have used ensorcelled piss to create an invisible barrier around Doriath.  Then he sighed. That was hardly the first time that Rivendell had enjoyed a benefit from the deep arts, no matter the origin.

The grin on Laurefin's face was wicked. "Well, you did ask."

"Yes, I did. Your wife is most peculiar."

"That she is.  I miss her." Laurefin's grin had disappeared, but in a moment, he brightened. "Ah! Here we are!"

The carriage turned into the wide arc of a drive before the House of the Hundred Chimneys. The mansion of red brick almost glowed, as if it had captured the day's light and only reluctantly released it as dusk descended. Golden light shone from the glass panes of the tall windows. High above, the many chimneys that gave the house its name turned crimson as the last rays of the setting sun struck them. 

The chimneys never failed to draw Elrond's eye. They were such fanciful works of art: all made of red brick embellished with patterns of curlicues, honeycombs, spirals or geometric zigzags. No two were alike. Fantastical limestone statues of creatures — part-dragon, part-dog and part-fish — formed the spouts of the gutters.  More prosaic creatures that looked like stylized foxes, wildcats and stoats crept through entwined with leaves, vines and flowers on the stone friezes that decorated the walls of the structure. It was a spectacular home, worthy of being called a palace, although its owner always demurred at such a term for his "humble home," as he named it.

Again, their progress slowed when the carriages ahead of them stopped to deposit their passengers at the wide court before the main entrance. Liveried footmen assisted the ladies and men down from their vehicles. The women were all clad in the fashion now favored among the gentlefolk of Tol Eressëa: fitted gowns with plunging necklines that revealed cleavages from delicate to bountiful and made from fine fabrics of subtle hues, that of evening sky, of twilight woods, a dawn in the springtime or sea foam on a summer's day. The ladies' jewels twinkled like living stars around their necks, on fair wrists and in their hair.

The men on the other hand — every one of them wore a kilt. Elrond wondered if Gilfanon had made this a condition of attending the party. Most of the men wore black jackets, but some had donned tight embroidered vests over white shirts with voluminous sleeves. The kilts provided a wild kaleidoscope of colors: red, blue, gold, green, orange and even violet, all crisscrossed with stripes to form plaid patterns. All had high hemlines, revealing many hairy Noldorin knees and their less hairy Sindarin equivalents. Some men, like Elrond, seemed uncomfortable. Others, like Laurefin, appeared to revel in the daring dress. Still others did not seem to care one way or another.

The carriage ahead of them listed to one side when one of the passengers descended. The portly man teetered on the step. Two footmen held his hands as he stepped down, and the entire carriage lurched when the stout fellow disembarked. He stumbled but was righted by a footman on either side of him. He brushed off the footmen.

"Here now! I'm fine, perfectly fine," the flush-faced lord said, his speech a little slurred.

"It would seem Lord Cemenolor has started the celebration early," Laurefin said under his breath to Elrond. "Good old Cemenolor! Just as fat as Salgant and at least three times as droll."

"But not craven," Elrond half-whispered.

"Yes, there is that."

The pink-cheeked and red-nosed Lord Cemenolor turned and saw Laurefin and Elrond. "Hullo, Laurefin!" he cried jovially as he careened toward the high arched entryway, the two footmen hovering, unsure of what they should do. "Good to see you. And is that Lord Elrond lured out of his lair up in the hills? Here for a little fun, are you?" and the plump man walked right into one of the potted laurel bushes that decorated the entry court.

Several things happened at once, or in some order perhaps, but Elrond was only able to recall the peripheral details such as the tipped pot that spilled dirt onto the paving stones and the flustered footmen. What he did recall vividly was Lord Cemenolor tripping and winding up on his back, his feet in the air like an ungainly turtle, and the revelation of what was beneath his kilt or rather, what was not beneath his kilt.  Elrond was not sure which was more ghastly: the utter lack of renowned elvish grace, something that not a few denizens of the Blessed Lands blithely disregarded, or Lord Cemenolor's exposed privates, pink and waggling about for all to see. The ladies nearby averted their eyes, but some giggled behind graceful hands and fans raised to cover their naughty mirth.

"He does not wear smallclothes!" Elrond hissed in horror.

"What?" Laurefin glanced at the struggling and sputtering Cemenolor, who was being helped to his feet. "Of course, he doesn't. I don't have any on either! Why? Do you?"

"Stars' mercy! Yes, I do, Laurefin! How can you bear to . . .to, well, not wear anything beneath this blasted thing?" He pinched a pleat between his fingers and flipped the fabric for emphasis.

Laurefin answered, unfazed: "I find it freeing. Much cooler, too."

Elrond and Laurefin stepped down unassisted from the carriage and with considerably more grace than Lord Cemenolor, who now weaved his way through the open doors. Laurefin flipped a culusta to Cailor, who caught it with the swipe of his hand. "Enjoy yourself at The Tank," he said, referring to The Tankard of Tulkas, a tavern popular amongst the working men of Tavrobel and the surrounding countryside. "We'll see you tomorrow then."

"Very good, m'lord," Cailor replied, touching his forehead with his knuckles. He then gripped the reins and snapped them sharply. "Gee up, lads!"  Off the horses trotted, allowing the next carriage to come forward.

"Tomorrow?" Elrond could not stop himself from glaring at Laurefin. "I thought you said the party was for the evening only."

"Well, yes, the evening.  The night.  Both.  You know how Gilfanon's parties go."

"Yes. Yes, I do," Elrond said. He faced his friend and gripped his arm. "No limpë, Laurefin. You must promise. Do not let Gilfanon ply us with limpë."

"Right. No limpë. Now come, Elrond. Pull that rod out of your hind end, and let's have some fun."

Chapter End Notes

Salgant appears in "The Fall of Gondolin,"  History of Middle-earth, vol II, Book of Lost Tales 2:

Behind them came the host of the Harp, and this was a battalion of brave warriors; but their leader Salgant was a craven, and he fawned upon Meglin. They were dight with tassels of silver and tassels of gold, and a harp of silver shone in their blazonry upon a field of black; but Salgant bore one of gold, and he alone rode into battle of all the sons of the Gondothlim, and he was heavy and squat.

So, yes, there's precedent for Elves who are not lithe and graceful.

Culusta/kulusta (Qenya): Gold coin.

Limpë (Quenya): wine, drink of the Valar, cf. the early "Qenya" gloss "drink of the fairies" (Book of Lost Tales 1, p. 258)

The doors opened wide in welcome, but Elrond stopped short at the threshold of the House of the Hundred Chimneys. The sensation of nausea, which so often presaged the onset of foresight, coiled in his midsection. Something was going to Happen tonight.

Of course, something will Happen! his inner voice informed him. This is one of Gilfanon's parties. Something always Happens.

"Come on then, Elrond!" Laurefin drummed his fingers on the package.

Elrond shook off the sick feeling and shoved the impending foresight away into a tidy corner of his mind for later consideration, but not before one brief image flashed from the diminishing strands of the Threads of Vairë. What he glimpsed was so impossibly absurd that he could not come close to analyzing it. 

Taking a deep breath and straightening his jacket, Elrond stepped into a tapestry of enchantment. He heard voices of the guests in conversation and laughter, and the crystal clinks of glasses. Somewhere in the distance, a harp and a flute made love to one another. The air billowed with fragrances that adorned the women - lilies and orange blossoms, green woods and ferns; these blended with the odors of spices, sandalwood and pine that wafted from the men. The bronze crown of lamps that hung overhead suffused the entry hall with soft, golden light of such hue that flattered whomever it illuminated.

Despite the many warm bodies congregated in the house, the air within was dry and cool. A gentle puff caressed away the last beads of sweat from Elrond's forehead, much to his relief, but a saucier breeze snaked its way up his legs and under his kilt. He swatted at the impertinent zephyr.

Laurefin shot him a sideways glance and whispered, "What's wrong? Do you have a fly up your kilt?"

Elrond did not respond for they approached a dark-eyed man of medium height, who bowed to them in greeting. He was not attired in a kilt, but rather in the uniform of starched white tunic, charcoal hose, and silver robe of the male servants of the House of the Hundred Chimneys. Elrond envied the man's subdued garb.

Gilfanon's head butler spread his arms in greeting. "Welcome, Lord Elrond and Lord Laurefin."

That Manetur never failed to retain his dignity impressed Elrond, but then Gilfanon's right hand man was a capable fellow, hired initially as a chimney sweep, but by virtue of his wit and hard work, he had risen quickly through the ranks of the extensive household staff. "Lord Gilfanon is indisposed at present, but he will join you later. My lord invites you to join the celebration and make merry. The roses are out in the back lawn, and there, too, you will find food and drink."

"Indisposed, you say?" said Laurefin. "I suppose we shall have to soldier on without him." He then extended the ornately wrapped package to the butler. "Here, Manetur. Could you please see that this is safely tucked away? It's a gift for my own dear cousin, Lord Rilyazin. I'll call for it later."

"Certainly, my lord," Manetur replied, taking the small present, its brilliant ribbons trailing. The butler nodded toward a maid, modestly attired in a high-necked silver and lavender gown, a style that Elrond wished Celebrían might favor instead of the dresses and blouses with necklines that stopped just short of baring her rosy nipples. The demure maid stood by two baskets brimming with violets. "For your pleasure, my lord has provided buttonholes for the lords, and wrist bouquets for the ladies."

"How thoughtful!"  Laurefin stood still while the maid threaded the spray of violets through the lapel of his jacket.  "I take it this is Gilfanon's gesture of goodwill toward the Vanyar, whose splendid arts have given us such gems as The Lays of the Violet?"

"Yes, it is, my lord," the maid answered mildly in response to Laurefin's sardonic query.

She picked up another bunch of violets tied with a satin ribbon and fixed it to Elrond's lapel.  Then he joined Laurefin, and they made their slow way through the house. In the course of their journey, not a few maidens and youths gasped as they passed by.

"What has Lord Glorfindel done with his hair?" was the most frequent lament. One young man turned away, his eyes blinking back tears. Two women openly wept. Laurefin just smiled graciously, kissed a few hands, which resulted in much fluttering of long eyelashes, and then resumed walking alongside Elrond.

Elrond scanned the crowd of guests and saw many familiar faces and a sea of hair-colors that ranged from light brown to nearly black, interspersed with a rare silver head here and there, but no gold, save for Laurefin. The Vanyarin guests had not yet arrived.

They entered Gilfanon's ballroom, a massive space with a domed ceiling high above. Many guests mingled there. Musicians set up their equipment on a wide dais at the far end of the chamber. The entire space was illuminated with a soft glow. Elrond lifted his eyes: what must have been thousands of tiny lights of gold, silver and blue-white twinkled overhead, like stars captured in nets and strung up over the entire surface of the ceiling.

"Enchanting!" exclaimed Laurefin, also gazing upwards. "Sámaril's last letter hinted that he had a surprise in store. 'A commission for Gilfanon,' he wrote. This must be it. His tenure with Aulë is proving to be most productive."

"It certainly is," Elrond replied. The nets of lights were lovely, and it pleased Elrond to know that his former master of Rivendell's forges was happily occupied with the Great Smith.

"Look! Over there." Laurefin nudged Elrond. "Erestor's already here."

Elrond spotted the tall, lean figure standing near the wall of glass-paned windows that adjoined the outer terrace.  Beyond, he saw the lawn, dark green in the dusk. Surrounding Erestor was a cluster of women who listened to him hold forth as he was wont to do. When Elrond and Laurefin edged closer, he glanced at them from the corner of his eye but did not stop speaking:

Behold the violet as it quavers

Kissed by Manwë's breath it wavers.

High above both time and tide

Clinging to the mountainside.

Here I pluck it. Lo! Just so.

Erestor bent from his waist, keeping the glass in his left hand steady, and made a motion as if picking a small flower. He straightened, lifted the invisible blossom and gazed at it with an expression of grand longing.

For to my love, I shall go

And gift yon posy where it shall rest

Between her pearly globéd breasts.

"And those are only a few verses of Lay One Hundred and Thirty Six," Erestor said.

One of the women, whom Elrond recognized as an important matron of Kortirion's society, blushed behind the fragile fan she held to her face. "You read them all? How marvelous!" she declared. The tiny jewels woven in her dark plaits glittered with her least little movement. "I myself have only finished Lay Eighty-Four. And my book club shall be meeting in only two weeks time! I shall have to bear down and read the entirety of those lovely poems."

Another woman, whose dark robes over her simple blue gown revealed her as a scholar from one of Taruithorn's great colleges, winced at the matron's words. "Lovely? That is not the word I would use to describe The Lays of the Violet."

Erestor gave the wincing woman a wry grin. "I agree, Istyanis Lenwindil. I can think of no other description for The Lays of the Violet than 'ghastly.' In fact, I need a drink to wash the bad taste out of my mouth."

He gulped the red fluid from the crystal glass he held. The scholar from Taruithorn grinned appreciatively whereas the other ladies exchanged discomfited looks. The Lays of the Violet, after all, was the Must Read book amongst the smart set these days.

Elrond admired Erestor's literary fortitude and said as much. "Master Erestor, you are my hero. I have only made it through Lay Thirty-Six so far, but I am bound and determined to finish. Or more accurately, Celebrían is determined that I will." Elrond extended his hand to Erestor who returned the handshake warmly.

"Lord Elrond, so good to see you. You look absolutely fetching in that kilt." He turned his eyes to Laurefin. "And you, too. . .wait. What shall I call you this evening? Glorfindel? Laurefin? Mud?"

"Laurefin."

"'Glorfy' it is!"

"You fiend."

"I know how much you cherish that moniker," Erestor said. "So, Glorfy, rumors of your presence reached me almost as soon as you stepped past the door. I hear at least one maiden fainted at the sight of your shorn head. Looks comfortable though. I'm tempted to do it myself."

"I hired a barber of Kortirion for the job. He's competent enough, and he came up to the manor to do it."

"So Findaráto's place is working out for you? Still rattling about in there by yourself?"

"Yes."

"Have you stopped at a certain music shop in Kortirion lately to peruse the magic flutes?"

"No."

"For such an intelligent fellow, you are remarkably idiotic at times."

"You're not the first to make that assessment."

Erestor opened his mouth, another quip at the ready, but Elrond's practiced look of warning silenced him. Erestor and Laurefin enjoyed a long friendship, and one that was often peppered with good-natured barbs, but Elrond knew that beneath the surface of Laurefin's jovial exterior lay feelings left raw in the outcome of his recent estrangement from Mélamírë and Ecthelion, not to mention his irrevocable separation from all those he loved back in Middle-earth. He felt protective of Laurefin and somehow responsible for at least some of the mess in which his friend was entangled. He knew what Celebrían would say to that: he assumed responsibility for far too many things and should step back from them.

Heeding Elrond's cue, Erestor changed course to arc his left arm toward glass-paned doors that opened onto a wide terrace. "Shall we go outside and see the very reason we are here enjoying Gilfanon's always fine hospitality?"

"I'd like that," Elrond said. "Lead the way."

"Gladly, but your hands are as naked as your knobby knees." Elrond flinched. He did not need to hear Erestor describe his knees as knobby. "You need drinks first." He beckoned to a maid bearing a silver tray of crystal glasses filled with a cheerful red beverage.

Elrond plucked a glass and lifted it to his lips. The drink that slid over his tongue was cool, fruity and had a playful effervescence. "Very good."

"An excellent punch," Erestor agreed. "It goes down easily. Too easily. That makes it all the more deadly, I imagine. Oh, well. Bottom's up!" He drained his glass and took another full one, and the three men proceeded outside into the warm evening, walking down the steps of the wide terrace and onto the velvet grass of the lawn.

Two large white tents were set up, each lit from within by nets of twinkling lights like those in the ballroom. Sheltered by the tents were tables laden with food. Servants hovered there, some serving the guests, others waving large fans, no doubt to cool the torpid air captured beneath the tents and also to drive away annoying insects.

Directly ahead of Elrond and his companions were the formal gardens. There at their entrance was the cause for celebration. Centered in a bed of dark loam and surrounded by torches was a single rose bush, covered with blossoms. A fence made from a silver ribbon strung through white posts with gold knobs guarded the bush. Nearby the harpist and flautist serenaded the rose.

From his position just beyond the silver ribbon, Elrond examined the plant with a keen eye. He had bred roses for many years back in Middle-earth, mostly for study, but also for pleasure, and it was an interest that he and Gilfanon shared with great mutual enthusiasm. These blooms were extravagant: fulsome and rounded, almost as big as a smith's fist. The outer petals were dawn-pink but the inner petals darkened to deep carmine. Even a few feet away, the fragrance was exquisite: a blend of raspberries and vanilla. This rose was a work of art.

"How lovely," drawled Erestor beside him. "I wonder if Yavanna's more delicate parts smell as sweet?"

Laurefin snorted and spluttered, his mouth full of punch. He swallowed hard and gasped.

"Stars' mercy, Erestor! Are you trying to kill me?"

Erestor's mouth quivered with a guffaw ready to burst forth.

Elrond cast a stern eye toward the two men. "Honestly, can't you two appreciate the beauty of this rose without resorting to ribaldry?"

"Yes, yes, of course, my lord," Erestor replied, composing himself while Laurefin's face turned red. "It is a nice rose. A very nice rose. In fact, it reminds me of one of the varietals you bred back in Lindon. What did you call it? 'Dawn's Song?'"

"Yes, that was it. I'm surprised you remembered."

"Oh, I recall many of your roses. I also recall that you named your roses less provocatively than does the master of the House of the Hundred Chimneys. Yavanna's Bush? I'd say Gilfanon plays the schoolboy more than Glorfy or I do."

"Laurefin, not Glorfy," Laurefin corrected sharply. He wiped stray drops of punch from his mouth with the back of his hand. "It's a good thing that Yavanna has a sense of humor. She and her husband are at least approachable. Almost human in some ways."

"Emphasis on almost," Erestor said. "But yes, Yavanna and Aulë are a damn sight better than the Doomsman and his spouse, the Weaver. Now those two are downright scary. And don't even talk to me about Fui Nienna's, uh, darker aspects." Erestor visibly shuddered, and the evening light dimmed as if a cloud passed overhead although the sky remained clear.

"Agreed," said Elrond. He suppressed a shiver as he recalled the journey to the Halls of Mandos when he escorted the hobbits there not long after they had arrived on the Lonely Isle. "But let's not tempt Fate by invoking those three. I could use a bite to eat. Shall we?"

They had only taken a few steps toward the tents when someone cried out, "Lo! The first star of the evening!"

Elrond and his companions stopped in their tracks as did all the other guests who halted whatever they were doing, whether it was grazing on the foods within the tents, taking a stately walk through the grounds or playing a vigorous game of lawn darts. All raised their voices in familiar refrain:

A Elbereth Gilthoniel!

Silivren penna míriel...

And so on until the traditional song had been sung and several more stars had winked into the firmament. Grazing on food, perambulating the sward, playing music and tossing lawn darts resumed.

"Right!" declared Erestor. "That's out of the way then. Let's eat!"

Chapter End Notes

Manetur has made a previous appearance here.

Taruithorn is the Gnomish word for Oxford. See HoMe II, Book of Lost Tales, Vol. II, pp. 292-293 and 347.

Erestor led Elrond and Laurefin to one of the tents where they filled white porcelain plates with all manner of dainties: morsels of rare beef seasoned with horseradish-cream and wrapped in savory pastry, slivers of smoked trout, slices of ripe melon, pink shrimp with a spicy red sauce, and plump strawberries dipped in dark chocolate. Then there were the little cubes of cake, made with razor-thin layers of pastry interspersed with sweet fillings. No formal banquet was planned, but the spread of luxurious tidbits made that irrelevant.

After satisfying their hunger and taking more punch, which did in fact flow down the throat with remarkable ease, the three men mingled with the guests, each chatting with those whom they liked and politely greeting those whom it was wise not to ignore.

Elrond's reputation as wise counselor in Middle-earth had preceded him, and even at parties, he found that he provided a listening ear to those who complained of their many quandaries and travails of life on the Lonely Isle, all of which struck him as exceedingly trivial compared to the terrible hardships that so many of his kin —mortal and Firstborn alike — had faced in Middle-earth.  After the twelfth tale of a stubborn neighbor, a bored spouse, or unfair tithes to the Valar, listening patiently became tiresome, but it would not do to show any hint of irritation.  He did, after all, have a reputation to uphold.

Just when he thought he would at last snap at one of the minor nobles of Kortirion Province who complained of his neighbor's untidy hedges, Elrond had an unlikely rescuer.  Lord Cemenolor, his face even more ruddy, if that was possible, grabbed his elbow.

"Elrond! Come!  You're on my team, old sport!" In spite of the high color of his cheeks, Cemenolor did not slur his words and was steady on his feet.

"What?"

"We're playing a game of ohta paliso!  See, we've both the same kilt. So we're on the same team. Come on then. Get the blood pumping, eh?"

Elrond then looked at Lord Cemenolor's kilt. He had not noticed before, because what lay beneath the quilt had engraved itself in his thought (and he strove not to think of the sight), but indeed Cemenolor's garment had the same dark blue field with green, red and gold plaid stripes.

"I don't know, Cemenolor. Lord Rilyazin and his company shall be here soon. It wouldn't do to be thus engaged when they arrive."

"It will only be a quick match. We've all agreed on that. First to reach three goals-on-net wins. No need to worry! 

Elrond peered across the lawn to see a clutch of perhaps fifteen men in blue kilts like his gathering on a large field of closely clipped grass where servants were stringing nets between pairs of tall white poles at either end. Other servants placed bright torches around the perimeter of the field. The torches burned not with fire, but with a cold white light, another invention of Sámaril's devising, no doubt. Also on the field gathered an equal number of men in green kilts, Laurefin amongst them.

If this did not portend disaster, Elrond did not know what would: two teams of possibly inebriated men playing a game of ohta paliso when dignitaries — Vanyarin dignitaries at that — might arrive at any moment. And yet, Elrond's blood stirred at the prospect of a match; the demon imp that lurked within him kicked a few times.

The exciting but violent sport of ohta paliso, or cammag as the Grey-Elves of Middle-earth named it, had been a favorite pastime of his youth. Not a few boys had their teeth knocked out during the matches. The girls played separately, but theirs was not a gentle sport. If anything, their matches were even more vicious than that of the boys. Celebrían was rumored to have been a terror on the field, but he had never seen her play, and she declined to fill him in on the specifics.

Ohta paliso was an ancient game, having its beginnings among the oldest of the Elves who lived along the shores of Cuivienen. The Elves claimed it as their own, but were surprised when they encountered Men who were not only proficient at closely related forms of cammag, but who were evenly matched and sometimes exceeded the ability of the Firstborn. The Followers, in turn, claimed the game as their own.

Elrond fondly recalled the games with mortal boys back in the mists of his youth. No matter the origins, it was a favorite sport among many of his people, who would play a match at the least provocation. The elders of the Firstborn encouraged it, for the game was a means for the youngsters to learn how to fight as a team, and many continued to play it when they were adults. He recalled Maedhros and Maglor cheering for him and Elros during their matches and tending bloody noses and scraped knees afterward.

Here on Tol Eressëa, the love of the sport had not diminished. If anything, it was even more popular in its role as an acceptable means of releasing aggression in a land of unending peace. It was a sport at which Elrond excelled, and in another time and place, he would have joined the fray without hesitation. But now? He had his misgivings.

The Vanyarin ambassador could arrive at any moment. I'd best drag Laurefin off the field, too. It is senseless, no, absolutely crazy to play a match now.

He gazed at the field and the men milling around on the grass. His hesitation evaporated.

Call me crazy.

His demon imp danced a jig while he strode toward the field, doffing his jacket as he went. Cheers from the blue kilts greeted him:

"The Dragon! The Dragon comes! Hurrah, the Dragon!"

Elrond's heart swelled. That had been his nickname on the fields in those days of yore, thanks to his strikes, said to be so swift that they sizzled the very air like dragonfire. His new teammates slapped him on the back and then set to the task of preparing for the game.

Jackets were given to servants, and fine white shirts were stripped off so they would not be damaged. Silk stockings and shoes were removed so that bare feet might grip the grass and find purchase. Belts with ceremonial knives were unbuckled to leave the men only in their kilts. Servants ferried away the clothing to be organized by team and owners on tables set up nearby. A hurley was thrust into his hands. He tested the weight of the long stick with its axe-like blade at the end and then stepped away to practice a few swings.

Yes. This feels good. This feels right.

As he swung, the Greens roared, and Elrond saw the object of their cheers: a muscular green-kilted man, already bare-chested and bare-footed, loped across the field.

"Mablung! Mablung of the Heavy Hand!"

Elrond's heart beat a little faster. Mablung. He had been reincarnated only recently, and almost immediately fled from the Halls of Mandos to Tol Eressëa where an entire village of former denizens of Doriath had settled. They tended to keep to themselves, but Mablung, as he had in Beleriand, mingled among the Noldor with ease and had quickly become friendly with Gilfanon. He also had a reputation of being a fearsome cammag player. Elrond had never met him in a match back in Middle-earth, but here in the Blessed Lands amongst peace and plenty, they would do battle on the sward. Elrond smiled grimly. He welcomed the prospect.

A whistle pierced the air. Erestor. Few could whistle through their teeth like that. He was the referee, wearing neither green nor blue kilt, but rather a burnt-orange garment. The teams lined up at his signal, twelve men to a side, including the goalkeeper. Elrond took his customary position in offense as center forward and faced Mablung, whose dark eyes blazed with the fire of competition. He smiled slowly at Elrond: a toothy smile like that of a predator sizing up his prey.

"So we meet at last, Dragon."

Elrond returned what he hoped was an equally feral grin. "We meet at last, Heavy Hand."

The goat hide ball lay quiet on the grass, which shimmered emerald-green in the bright torchlight. Elrond heard murmurs and glanced sideways to see that a number of men and women had congregated alongside the bounds.

Erestor raised his right hand. "Greens! Blues!" he shouted, his voice booming deep and resonant. "Are you ready for battle?" 

The players' war cries would have struck fear into any batallion of orcs during the Great Wars of Beleriand. As it was, the tumult caused a flock of roosting birds in the nearby oaks to scatter and fly off into the night in search of a quieter resting place.

Erestor dropped his hand and the match began.

Elrond scooped the ball from the sward in one swift motion. He flipped the ball to his hand as he propelled himself forward, the balls of his feet digging into the grass. Mablung grazed his side; an elbow jabbed him in the ribs but not before Elrond tossed the ball and struck it with the blade of his hurley. The ball went flying to Cemenolor down field. The stout man caught the ball in his hand, took three steps and then tossed the ball in the air to catch it with the blade of his hurley where he balanced it as he ran. Cemenolor was surprisingly fast for his girth, and for a moment, Elrond saw the slim young nobleman who had led a legion in the War of the Last Alliance.

Elrond dodged and wove his way through the Greens. Laurefin ran alongside him like a hound pursuing a stag, but Elrond evaded him. Cemenolor passed the ball to a fellow named Aearon, who dashed along the sward, surrounded by thicket of Greens. Aearon leapt like a deer to catch the ball in his hand. He twisted around and in mid-air, he let the ball roll to the end of his hurley and flipped it in one swift motion to Elrond. Elrond angled his stick, caught the ball just so, tossed it and swung with all his might. The strike screamed past the Green goalkeeper, and the net bulged with the first goal.

"The Dragon strikes! Hurrah the Dragon!" his teammates cheered along with the spectators.

The first goal-on-net had been swift, but the Greens took their first goal just as quickly. Mablung was fast and agile, and through a series of perfectly placed passes amongst the Greens, he took possession of the ball. The Heavy Hand barreled through the Blues' defense where he made a decisive strike that burned past the goalkeeper's ear into the Blue net.

The teams lined up again. Erestor gave the signal, and the ball was in play when Elrond scooped it from the sward. He dodged past Mablung, who brought his hurley crashing hard down on Elrond's stick. Elrond fumbled and lost the possession of the ball to a Green, who darted off to the side, dropping the ball to the grass and then striking it to another teammate.

Blue defense rallied and with a fast clash of hurleys, the ball came flying back toward Elrond. Sprinting deep into Green territory, he leapt and snagged the ball with his hurley, slamming it to Aearon already running toward Green goal. The Blues executed a series of passes amongst the determined Greens, and the ball again came into Elrond's possession. He ran, balancing the ball on the blade. Then he flung the ball to the grass and drew back his hurley, intent on striking the ball on the bounce and into the net but was thwarted when his stick was hooked from behind. Mablung.  Nimble Aearon dashed forward to snag the ball right out from under the Heavy Hand's nose.  With a few more passes, none other than Cemenolor scored Blues' second goal-on-net to tie the game. 

At the center line face-off, a snarl had replaced Mablung's smile, and Elrond's blood ran hot. His demon imp no longer capered and pranced. It roared like a valarauco. Erestor gave the signal, and Mablung and Elrond clashed, their hurleys smacking against one another, but a Green player scooped up the ball and sent it winging toward Blue goal. With a flurry of clashing hurleys and bodies, Blue defense regained possession and sent the ball flying back to the Blue offense.

The ball bounced on the grass several feet in front of Elrond. He surged forward, thrusting out his hurley to catch it when someone bumped into him from behind as his right foot was coming down. He stepped awkwardly on the grass, and his knee buckled under him. The white fire of pain shot up his thigh into his spine. He was down, and he saw Mablung running, the ball now in his possession. He grabbed his injured knee, the same that he had twisted when wave-dancing. Elrond was dimly aware of a sharp whistle that pierced the air as he lay rolling on the grass.

He was helped to his feet and limped off the field, leaning on Cemenolor and Aearon who supported him on either side. He was settled on the grass, and a woman in a peony-pink gown knelt beside him. He recognized her as one of the younger healers of Kortirion. She gently probed the tissues around his knee. Pain shot up his leg again. He was unable to suppress a sharp gasp.

"I'm afraid you're out of the match, Lord Elrond," the healer said, shaking her head, which made the many tiny diamonds woven into her dark hair sparkle. "Stay still. I want to put an ice pack on your knee now, but it is best if we take you to the house."

Elrond almost cursed at her, but his better self gained the upper hand, and he reined in the impulse.  He evenly agreed with her diagnosis and treatment. She sent a servant off to find ice.  He let out an sharp exhalation in an attempt to settle himself, mind and body.

His demon imp was having none of that. The heat of anger grew while he watched the Blues and Greens waging war against one another, the ball flying and the players running, their sweat-slick torsos gleaming like polished armor in the torchlight as each team battled to break the tie.  Again, he tried to calm himself.

Be reasonable.  I am injured.  Don't make it worse. Relax, just. . .

He slapped his hand against the ground. He refused to succumb to being wise and reasonable.  Not now!

No. No. I will not sit out. I will not give up!

He gritted his teeth and gathered himself. Then he unlocked his jaw to take several deep breaths, in and out, in and out, and with a lightning surge of will, he dove into the sinews of his right knee.

He allowed that first sensation of disorientation to pass while his mind processed what he now viewed: injured ligaments and blood; a wall of bone. Then, fast as a seamstress at her spinning wheel, he grasped the torn fibers and spun them. He found more torn shreds and knitted them together.

All the while, he sang to the pulsing white monsters of his own body that sent red fire to his inflamed tissues. He soothed them, easing their fury at the affront of injury, and told them they needn't react so fiercely. He spun and spun the tissues, like a mad weaver, amazed at his own work. Usually, reaching into the body and effecting this kind of healing, "dancing with molecules" as Mélamírë would say, while invoking the glittering and powerful words of the Valar, was far more difficult for him, so he rarely applied it as swiftly and thoroughly as he did now. But it seemed easy as breathing. When he was satisfied with his work, he emerged from the self-induced trance. The white lights of the torches swam before his eyes, and he promptly leaned over and vomited.

The healer, who had only taken a few steps away from him, rushed back to his side. Elrond waved her off and started to lift himself from the grass. She tried to push him back down.

"No!  Lord Elrond, you must remain still!"

This time, he grabbed her hand - hard. She winced, and he released his grip.

"No. Truly, I am all right now."

"But you just threw up."

"Ah. Yes. That is just a side effect. Really, I am fine."

He stood up and tested his weight on his right leg. It felt fine. In fact, it felt even better than it had before. He marveled at the healing he had just accomplished. He remembered the conversation he had with Mélamírë shortly before he departed the shores of Middle-earth forever. There in a quiet parlor, she had told him how she had escaped the inescapable: the Barad-dûr.

"It was a bit more difficult than being stuck up in a huge tree," she said wryly, comparing her imprisonment to Lúthien's predicament, "and my mad sire's behavior made Thingol look like a pussycat." Her breezy humor masked a terrifying experience, one that would always haunt her.

What she had done dwarfed his efforts here. She had actually changed her shape to fly out of reach of those intent on harming her, and she squeezed through a high window. She had done this only once in her lifetime, she cautioned, and it had almost killed her. Her theory was that the most profound effects from the shaping of one's own molecules, an ability that she and Elrond had inherited from the Fays, were triggered by a surge of anger or fear that swept through the body in times of crisis. Elrond wondered if his lust to rejoin the match had allowed him to knit his tissues so effectively.

Dwelling on such theories is for another time, he thought. I need to get back into the match. Now.

His demon imp roared and lashed its whip of fire as he dashed out onto the field, hurley in hand, when substitutes were called. The crowd roared.

"The Dragon! The Dragon returns!"

The players faced off in Blue territory. The Greens were in good position close to the goal. Too close to goal. Elrond was not going to let the Greens score. Erestor shouted, and Aearon struck, scooping the ball from the grass before his opponent could touch it. Elrond was already running far downfield, deep into Green territory. The ball flew through the air, the stars shining behind it, and Elrond caught it with the blade of his hurley, sending it to the sward with a controlled bounce.

Swiftly, he began his drive to the goal. There were no Green defensemen in sight. Closer and closer the net loomed as he maneuvered the ball along the grass. Then he slammed into something hard. The force knocked him on flat on his back. Stars from the impact filled his vision. Then he heard Erestor's whistle, stopping play. He groaned and raised himself to elbows. There was Laurefin, sitting on the grass, his hands over his face and blood streaming down over his lips and chin. He raised pained eyes to Elrond and removed his hands to reveal a bloody nose.

He put the fingers of his right hand on the bridge of his nose and wiggled. He gave Elrond a weak smile. "You didn't break it."

Elrond pushed himself off the grass to stand and extend a hand to help Laurefin when the sound of trumpets cut through the cheers and shouts of the crowd. The players and the spectators fell silent. Once again, the clarion call rang golden in the night.

The Vanyar had arrived.        

Chapter End Notes

Ohta paliso (my own construct for "War of the Sward" in Quenya) bears a very strong resemblance to hurling, popular in Ireland of our primary world. Hurling occurs in ancient Irish myth and legend, e.g., the Fir Bolg and the Tuatha de Dannan played a ferocious hurling match. Forms of the game were popular not only among the Celts of Ireland but other parts of British Isles.  It seems like a game that might fit amongst the elvish and mannish cultures of Middle-earth.  Cammag is the term used for a game closely related to hurling that is played on the Isle of Man, and it sounds vaguely Sindarin so I have used it in this manner.

Valarauco (Quenya):  demon of might, a.k.a. balrog (see HoMe XI, War of the Jewels).        

A few Greens and Blues lingered on the field, debating on whether to continue the game, but for Elrond and Laurefin, there was no question that the match was at an end.  Elrond strode toward the mounds of clothing piled high on the table where other players and servants milled about, searching for jackets and shirts, stockings and shoes.  He hoped he could find his clothing quickly.  He also wondered just how badly he smelled. Laurefin, who walked alongside him with blood dripping from his nose, was unquestionably pungent.  At any other time, Elrond would have welcomed the sweat of good, honest exercise.  But now?  Their body odor would only serve to confirm the Vanyar's long-cherished belief that the Noldor and Sindar who had settled in Tol Eressëa were little better than barbarians.

A third strong odor added to their miasma of exertion when Mablung trotted up alongside them.  "So we're calling it a draw?"

"It would seem so," Elrond replied.

"Pity. I should have liked to have ground you down into the grass."

He stopped and turned to confront the Sinda, but Mablung's warm smile quenched the flare of Elrond's still snarling valarauco, who shrank once more into a capering imp.

"I'd like to see you try."  He extended his hand to Mablung who shook it firmly.

"You know, there's a cammag league in Kortirion," Mablung said. "You really ought to think of joining."

"I will consider it.  Well met, Heavy Hand."

"Well met, Dragon.  Now don't you have some diplomacy to attend to?"

Elrond glanced over his shoulder to see faint golden light emerging from the house and onto the terrace.  There was no time to waste, but the servants at the table piled high with garments were efficient.  They snatched the hurleys from the players, handed them towels to wipe sweat, blood and grass stains from their bodies, and helped to gather their clothing.  Someone had managed to procure a bottle of cheap fragrance that reeked of violets.  The men passed the bottle around and frantically splashed the perfume on their bodies.

Violets and sweat. Elrond wrinkled his nose as he rubbed the cloying perfume into his armpits. May the Weeper pity us.

Laurefin pressed a cloth to his face. Elrond watched his friend's expression take on a look of inward focus while he directed his fëa's energies to aid the healing process. Shortly, he removed the cloth, and Elrond examined his nose, which had stopped bleeding.

"You bashed me hard, Dragon." Laurefin winced as Elrond gently probed the bridge of his nose. "I know who to blame if my fabled beauty is ruined."

A servant handed Laurefin an ice pack.  "Keep that pressed against your nose for a while," Elrond said, "then remove it, and then put it on again.  You may very well have a non-displaced fracture, and your face will most certainly be swollen.  But other than that, your beauty will be none the worse for wear save for a pair of black eyes.  Almost makes up for getting my knee twisted and arm broken."

"Your knee seems to be just fine now," Laurefin said.

"Yes, so it does."  Elrond had no inclination to elaborate on his rapid healing.  He was happy enough that he had been able to achieve it. He thrust his arms through the sleeves of his jacket, straightened the lapels and touched the sprig of violets to make sure they were in place.  He ran his hands over his hair in an attempt to smooth it.  "Are you ready to greet your cousin?"

"As ready as I will ever be."  Laurefin adjusted the sleeves of his jacket and repositioned the ice pack against his face.

They walked side by side across the sward. The throng of guests parted to let them pass, and when the crowd drew back, Elrond saw the guests of honor.  There, in a faint nimbus of golden light, stood Lord Rilyazin, Lady Tárazmë, and their retinue of minor diplomats, civil servants and nobility from Valmar.

Elrond's determined pace faltered for a moment when he remembered how awestruck he had been by the warriors of the Vanyar during the War of Wrath. He had been agog at their strange beauty, the bizarre but devastating weapons they bore, and their regal demeanor, but he had been put off by their supreme sense of entitlement.  This was only the second time Elrond had encountered the Firsts of the Firstborn on the Lonely Isle.  For countless years, the Minyar, as they called themselves, rarely came down from the Mountain, but of late, the Valar had encouraged (or perhaps coerced) Ingwë, the High King, to reach out to the citizens of Tol Eressëa.

These pure-blooded Vanyar made Laurefin look swarthy.  Whereas his hair was the color of ripe wheat, and his eyebrows and lashes were chestnut brown, their hair was so light-colored as to approach white, but washed with a veneer of gold.  Their pale eyebrows were almost non-existent, although quite a few appeared to have drawn them on their brows.  Their skin was preternaturally white, but as Elrond drew closer, he saw that this was the result of powder.

Flowing robes draped the Vanyarin women. The fabric, in hues of pastel blue, pale silver, snow-white and stone-grey, floated around the women like clouds of mist or fog, so transparent that what appeared to be the enticing outlines of lithe naked bodies could be glimpsed beneath the loose garments.  On closer inspection (and Elrond found it difficult to tear his eyes away), he saw that the women wore tightly fitted dresses beneath the gossamer robes.  They covered their long hair, which hung in many fine plaits, with generous scarves of the same misty fabric as their robes.  Most wore nets studded with gems across the lower half of their faces, leaving their luminous blue or grey eyes exposed.  Overall, their garb gave the illusion of modesty, whereas, in fact, it was provocative.

However, compared to their men, the women were drab peahens.  The Vanyarin men favored brilliant jewel-tones for their doublets, peplums, and breeches.  Even their hose were brightly colored.  All wore beribboned codpieces decorated with gems and studs of precious metals.  Even more elaborate than their clothing was their hair, piled high on their heads in intricate designs and decorated with gems, chains, silken cords, and strands of pearls.  Elrond noted that Lord Rilyazin's hairstyle was most extravagant of all with its many jeweled plaits that looped and soared as if in flight around his head.  Elrond wondered if Rilyazin's neck hurt from carrying the weight of that tower of hair.  He recalled Laurefin's remarks that Vanyarin men's hairstyles were dictated by their social standing. Clearly, Lord Rilyazin's place in the court of Ingwë must be high.

Gilfanon was still nowhere to be seen, but Manetur, who had escorted the Vanyarin delegation out to the lawn, calmly bowed to Rilyazin:

"Lord Rilyazin, Lady Tárazmë. . . if I may presume, please allow me to introduce Lord Elrond of Kortirion and Lord Laurefin of. . ." 

Rilyazin cut short Manetur's introduction with a swift chop of his left hand, heavy with massive rings of gold and silver. He frowned at Laurefin.

"What in the name of the holy snows have you done to your hair?"

"Why, I had it cut, dear cousin!" Laurefin replied, removing the ice pack from his face. "Nice to see you, too."

"And your face? You have injured yourself?"

"Bashed my nose in a pick-up ohta paliso match. I'm fine."

"Ohta paliso? May the snows of the Mountain preserve us!"  Keeping his head perfectly still, Rilyazin raked Elrond and Laurefin up and down with his eyes and then scanned the throng of guests, noting the other lords and noblemen who had played in the match. He wrinkled his nose. Elrond surmised he must have smelled the heady fragrance of violets and sweaty men.

"I'll take a civilized game of lawn billiards, thank you."  He returned his attention to Laurefin's hair. "You are an affront to nature, cousin.  Your mother and grandmother would be so disappointed."

"I believe they are perpetually disappointed with me."

"Well, you've given them ample reason to be. You just haven't been the same since you rejoined us after Lord Námo, blessed be his dooms. . ." Rilyazin touched his white forehead with his forefinger.

"Blessed be his dooms," the other Vanyar intoned, also touching their foreheads. Elrond was given to understand that the Firsts were exceptionally pious, and these gestures bore that out.

". . . after he brought you back to life.  You should never have returned to the Outer Lands.  I've always maintained you spent far too much time among the Fays, especially with that Olórin chap."

Elrond had enough of it.  He thought of all that Laurefin had done: his courage during the War of the Elves with Sauron; the fortitude he displayed during the hardships of the siege of the Barad-dûr; how he had risked his life time and again when he fought in the skirmishes against Angmar, and the many smaller unsung ways he had bolstered the hearts of both Elves and Men during the Third Age, not least a small band of travelers - a Ranger of the Dúnedain and four hobbits - whom he had found out in the Wild, pursued by dreadful enemies.

"Many of Middle-earth have reason to be grateful that your cousin returned."  Elrond hoped his voice carried a dangerous edge beneath its smooth contours as he intended.

Rilyazin swiveled his head slowly. It was a ponderous movement, like a large ship turning. "Ah. Lord Elrond! It is a pleasure to meet you at last."  Rilyazin's tone became sweet and mellow as honey.  "I have heard so much of what you have achieved here on the Lonely Isle.  I do believe we are related through Elenwë who was my grandmother's first cousin. . ."  The diplomat launched into a lengthy genealogy, tracing Elrond's tenuous Vanyarin connections to merest of twigs of a very large family tree.

Rilyazin's odd accent, which buzzed and puffed with strange pronunciations, bothered Elrond, still accustomed to the more fluid sounds of Quenya and the rich earthy notes of Sindarin.  As Rilyazin held forth on a fifth cousin once removed, Lady Tárazmë, a smile frozen on her face beneath her veil, made an almost imperceptible movement, but Elrond saw her elbow jut from beneath the filmy robe and into her husband's ribs. Rilyazin gasped and stopped his rambling.

"Ah! Pardon me, my dear. Elrond, Laurefin, may I present my beloved wife, Lady Tárazmë."

Elrond took her extended hand and kissed it, and Laurefin did the same.

"It is my pleasure to meet you," Laurefin said. "I am sure that your husband has told you all about me."

"Not everything, Lord Laurefin."  Tárazmë could not keep her eyes from wandering toward Laurefin's bare knees.  Elrond wondered what she would think if she knew that only a single layer of pleated wool separated his vië from her sight.  Then she looked around the lawn.  "Where is Lord Gilfanon?  I am surprised that he is not here greet us!"  Her accent buzzed and puffed just as much as that of her spouse.

"Yes," agreed Rilyazin. "After all, the party is being held in our honor."

Elrond thought that was peculiar.  According to the invitation he and Laurefin had received, the blooming of Yavanno Tussa was the reason given for the party with the ambassador and his wife as guests of honor, but not the objects of celebration.  He wondered if Gilfanon had sent a different invitation to the Vanyar.  He would not put it past him.

"He is indisposed, my lady," Elrond said, falling with ease into his accustomed role of the diplomat, "but I am certain he will join us soon."  He was actually not so certain, but best to put a good face on it.  "In the meantime, he has provided entertainment, food and drink.  Would you like some punch?  Or perhaps you might like to see Gilfanon's prize rose?"

"Oh! I should like to see the rose!" Tárazmë gushed.  "I love roses.  They do not grow so well high on the slopes of the Mountain."

They strolled across the lawn to the flowerbeds where the soft light of torches now illuminated Yavanno Tussa.  The harpist and flautist still played.

"Such lovely blossoms!" exclaimed Lady Tárazmë.  She inhaled deeply; her veil fluttered with her intake of breath.  "And her fragrance is delightful.  I would love to see this rose every day.  I wonder if Gilfanon would give us a cutting so she might grace our hothouse gardens?"

Rilyazin did not answer her.  He was staring at the small bronze plaque upon which the name of the rose was engraved.  Beneath the white powder, his face had turned pink.  He jerked his head toward his wife.  His hair swayed dangerously.  He reached up with both hands to steady it.

"Yes, perhaps.  Maybe.  We will have to see about that," he sputtered.  "Why don't you and your ladies go to the tent and have some punch.  I wish to speak to Elrond and Laurefin for a moment.  Manly subjects, my dear."

Tárazmë gave him a quizzical look, frowned a little, but agreed.  "Very well."

Elrond was astounded as he watched the Vanyarin ladies stroll across the lawn toward the tents.  He could not imagine Celebrían being so compliant.  Once Tárazmë and her ladies were out of earshot, Rilyazin rounded on both Elrond and Laurefin.

"What is the meaning of this? Is it Gilfanon's intention to embarrass us?"

"Why do you ask that?"  Laurefin said from beneath his ice pack.

"That!"  Rilyazin pointed to the plaque. "The name of the rose!"

"Simple enough.  Yavanno Tussa," replied Laurefin.

"Enough, cousin! My wife may be naïve to the idioms and slang of Gnomish Quenya, but I am not. That has a double meaning: a very vulgar one. It dishonors Yavanna."

"Dishonors her?"  Erestor, who had sidled up alongside Laurefin, piped up.

"Who are you?"

"Lord Rilyazin, this is Erestor," Elrond said. "He was my counselor when we dwelled in the Outer Lands. Before that, he sat on Erenion Gil-Galad's council. And before that. . ."

". . . One of the Rebels. Yes, I can see that," Rilyazin snarled as he squinted at Erestor's eyes, which still held the light of the deceased Trees, albeit faded.  "I am not surprised that you think the name of this rose is acceptable when in fact, it is an insult to one of the greatest of the Valier."

"On the contrary, I think Yavanna might like it," Erestor drawled. "It is said that she has a rather, uh, earthy sense of humor."

"It is blasphemous!"  Rilyazin's red face and sputtering made Elrond wonder how the man had ever been assigned a position as ambassador.

"But would you agree that it is a beautiful rose?"  Erestor asked.

"Well, yes, but. . ."

"And that it has, as the lovely Lady Tárazmë so astutely said, a delightful fragrance?"

"Yes, yes," Rilyazin snapped.  "But it is a dreadful name. Such humor, if one can call it that, reeks of the Shadow.  Of the Marring."

Laurefin's body tensed, and Elrond knew why. He had heard, not only from Laurefin, but also from his foster fathers how the Vanyar regarded the Noldor as stooges of Melkor in the days of the Rebellion.  Old habits died hard, as they said in Middle-earth, and it seemed to be the case here, too.  Yet Erestor, twice exiled, first from Aman and now from Middle-earth, remained unflustered.

"A little imperfection adds to beauty, I think. Makes it all the more poignant," Erestor said. "And truly, does it really matter for this wonderful specimen?  A rose by any other name would smell as sweet."

Rilyazin's color beneath the white powder became even more pronounced, but before he could retort, a horn sounded.  Elrond pricked up his ears.  This was not a golden horn of the Vanyar nor a silver horn popular among the hunting set in Tol Eressëa, but a trumpet made from the horn of a kine.  It was a primitive yet stirring call that took Elrond back to the hunts in the forests and on the plains of Beleriand under a full moon.  Gilfanon favored such horns, saying that they reached back to the roots of the Firstborn.  "The horns of Elfland," he often said, "should stir the heart."

Manetur, who had been unobtrusively standing nearby, now spoke up.

"That is the signal.  The entertainment of the evening now begins.  Please, my lords and ladies, let us proceed to the ballroom."

Tárazmë and her ladies rejoined the rest of the party.  They now clutched glasses of the red punch and had dropped their veils so they could drink.  Elrond thought the ladies laughed rather merrily.  Rilyazin, however, had a frown frozen across his brows.  Elrond offered his arm to Tárazmë.  She ripped her eyes away from his knees and accepted his gesture, placing a delicate hand on his forearm.  She chattered as they walked among those who led all the guests into the expansive ballroom.

"Your land is so delightful," she effused. Elrond concluded that 'delightful' must be one of her favorite words.  "You seem to have brought back many quaint customs from the Outer Lands.  I should have liked to watch this ohta paliso game.  I have heard of it.  It sounds so delightfully savage, like the customs of our most ancient of days before the Great Ones delivered us from Darkness.  Tell me, Lord Elrond, do you play ohta paliso often here on the Lonely Isle?"

"No, not often, but I played it frequently when I was a boy back in Middle-earth."

"Are those skirts the uniform for ohta paliso?"

"Oh, no. Gilfanon requested that we wear them."

"Ah! Well, they are delightful. Truly delightful. As are all the violets."  She raised her drink in her left hand to show off her wrist bouquet.  "It is so sweet of Gilfanon to give us these little bouquets. I hear that our poetry is very popular amongst your folk.  Gilfanon must truly love The Lays of the Violet.  And what do you think, Lord Elrond?   Are the poems of The Lays of the Violet not delightful?"

"Uh, yes. Delightful."

Tárazmë showed her agreement with his assessment by her radiant smile.  She took a drink of punch, which left a small pink mustache above her lips.  "Here we are!" she exclaimed as they stepped into the ballroom.  "Oh, look at all the stars, Ril!"

"Yes, there are many of them," Rilyazin said, who had been walking nearby next to Laurefin.  He rolled his pale eyes upward without tilting his head.  "Lovely."

"How they twinkle!" his wife exclaimed.  "What magic give them light, I wonder?"

Laurefin removed the icepack from his reddened nose.  "Please allow me to answer that, Lady Tárazmë.  Now if the smith who made them were here, he would tell you all about the composition of the crystal lattices that immobilize the essences of glowworms and other strange animalcules.  He would also tell you how any tiny bit of light - from candles, from starlight, whatever - excites these essences and makes them blaze one-hundred fold brighter.  He would wax poetic about the different minerals captured in the crystals which give the lights their color. . ."

"Oh, dear," Tárazmë sighed.  "I fear you have ruined the magic for me, Laurefin.  Smiths are so dreadfully dull and yet peculiar, too."

"Ah. Well, my wife is a smith, and 'dull' is not the word I would use to describe her," Laurefin said, grinning stiffly.  "Peculiar though, yes.  She is very peculiar."

"Oh, I am sorry if I have offended," Tárazmë fluttered. "Your wife must be delight . . ."

"Never mind!" interrupted Laurefin. "See, they are ready to start the dance.  Let's join the others."

The guests streamed onto the dance floor, pairing up.  Elrond asked Lenwindil, the scholar from Taruithorn, to be his partner.  The musicians had readied their instruments.  The viol player began first, and more viols, flutes, trumpets, bells and drums joined.  The guests partnered to dance a pavane, led by Lord Rilyazin and Lady Tárazmë.  The drums beat out a slow, stately rhythm.  Rilyazin, Tárazmë, and their retinue danced in perfect time and synchrony.

The Vanyar must have been born for this dance, Elrond thought, as he and Lenwindil, both well-schooled in the steps of the pavane, matched their movements.  Nonetheless, he felt awkward and unrefined as he watched the Vanyar, who owned the dance floor, almost floating as if their feet had wings.

An almain followed the pavane and next came a courante and an even livelier galliard.  All were familiar to Elrond, for the exiled Noldor had brought these formal dances to Middle-earth.  Gil-galad had ensured the traditions of the court of King Finwë, even if he, like Elrond, had been born in the Outer Lands, were carried on in his own palace, and so Elrond had learned the many complex steps.  But over the course of the long-years and by virtue of his interactions with many folk, mortal and Firstborn both, Elrond had come to appreciate the more fluid dances of the Sindar and later, the reels of the Laegrim that called to mind the Elves' most ancient roots.

The musicians then stopped playing, gathered their instruments, and departed, allowing the guests to rest and take refreshments.  By the time Elrond had downed a second glass of punch and had started on a third, a different set of musicians returned: one had a primitive-looking lyre tucked under his arm, a woman held a set of bone pipes and the other fellow carried skin-covered drums.

The piper began.  The haunting notes of the bone pipes called to mind the song of nightingales deep in a primeval forest.  All the guests turned toward the stage that had been built at the end of the ballroom.  Six men and six women, nude for all intents and purposes, save for the fabric leaves that covered indelicate areas of their anatomy, glided out on to the wide dais.

The lyre and the drum joined the pipes while the dancers moved with remarkable grace; their bare skin gleamed in the glow of the artificial starlight.  The music was languid at first, but as the performance progressed, the drums throbbed with an insistent rhythm, and the dancers paired with one another.  Their movements became increasingly sensual as their lithe bodies twined around one another, a man with a woman, and then man with man and woman with woman.

As he watched, Elrond recalled the frenzied dances around the bonfires on the Longest Night when at its culmination, couples would run off into the darkness to join in the act of love.  He remembered these dances of wild abandon with Celebrían during the early years of their marriage.  His face flushed at the memory, but the heat quickly fell to settle in his loins. He felt a stirring beneath his kilt.

He glanced around at the other guests, wondering if the dance had roused them as well.  The Noldor and Sindar were rapt; their bodies swayed and tapped their feet along with the beat.  But the Vanyar?  Each and every one of them looked terribly uncomfortable.  Most looked away when the performers reached the climax of the dance, grinding against one another in suggestion of puhta.  Rilyazin, who stood rigid with his arms crossed, grimaced as if he tasted something foul.  Tárazmë's face blushed red beneath her white powder.  But Elrond saw that she was also enthralled. Her mouth opened as she watched the writhing, almost naked dancers, and she ran the tip of her tongue over her lips.  Elrond looked away quickly.  That was entirely too enticing a sight, especially for a woman who was not his wife.

Just goes to show I am a red-blooded man, he assured himself while he focused on the throes of the dancers.  But I do wish Celebrían were here.

The performance ended with the dancers collapsed artfully on the floor of the stage.  They leapt up and bowed to the audience's enthusiastic applause.  The Vanyar's clapping was tepid at best.  Some, like Rilyazin, did not applaud at all.

"Excellent performance, don't you agree?" Laurefin said.  "Lhúndu's such an innovative choreographer.  The combination of the contemporary dance forms with that primitive reel was very effective."

"You can say that again," responded Erestor. "I'm in need of a cold bath now. An icy cold bath."

After the dancers left the dais, a considerably more comical form of entertainment took their place.  All laughed, even the Vanyar, when a troop of twelve little monkeys scampered out onto the stage, their tails curled over their backs.  The monkeys were dressed in colorful vests decorated with jewels.  Their handler, a tall man with honey-brown hair, set up little stools and from a bag at his side, produced little instruments - trumpets, pipes, drums and viols - which he gave to the monkeys. The creatures hopped up onto their stools and handled the tiny instruments with uncanny ease.

The man turned to the audience.  "It is my honor to present our next entertainment. . ."

Elrond squinted, examining the man with the monkeys. "Am I mistaken," he whispered to Laurefin, "or is that man a . . ."

"Yes. He's a Fay, and one who is not accustomed to human form. I'm certain of it. See how high his ears are set on his head?"

"Direct from the court of the Great Lord Oromë," the man with the odd ears said,  "I give you Lindelazië and his Jungle Orchestra!"

A monkey that wore a bright red vest and held a little golden trumpet raised his tiny paw, more like a hand in truth, screeched at his orchestra, a signal, Elrond thought, and put the instrument to his mouth.   Amazingly, a string of notes sounded, just like that of a man playing a horn, but shrill.   It was a very odd effect.

The other monkeys joined in and soon a rollicking tune had smiles on all the guests' faces and feet were tapping merrily.   Any tension induced by the previous dance evaporated.

"Oh, they are so darling!"  Tárazmë squealed after the monkeys finished the song.  "Look at their sweet little faces!  Look at their tiny hands!  Oh, how delightful!  How very, very delightful!"

Under the direction of the man who was probably a Fay, several of the monkeys laid aside their instruments, and accompanied by their little drums and trumpets, performed acrobatic tricks by jumping through hoops and tossing one another through the air.

The audience loved the monkeys, but none more than the Vanyar, who laughed and clapped heartily at their tricks. Tárazmë and her ladies squealed with delight.  Yes, delight, thought Elrond, so much delight.  Then, after taking drinks of water from a small cup, the acrobatic monkeys picked up their instruments and sat down on their little wooden stools.  Once the monkeys were settled and their instruments raised, their chief - Lindelazië - raised his little hand, and the next song began.

The music had a regal, dignified air to it, yet it was comical, too, what with the clatter of the tiny drums, the shrill trumpets and viols and the chirping pipes.  The overall effect was charming and brought a smile to Elrond's face.  Then he heard a stifled snort of laughter next to him.  He turned to see Laurefin's face clenched with his effort to suppress a guffaw.  Then Elrond looked over at the Vanyar.  They were not smiling.  On the contrary, all looked horrified.  Rilyazin's expression could have curdled milk and soured wine.

"What in the name of Varda's stars is going on?"  Elrond hissed at Laurefin.

Laurefin recovered sufficiently to whisper, "That music, my dear friend, is played when the High King Ingwë arrives to take his seat at the dining table for his supper.  It is the King's music.   According to the customs of the court, that tune is forbidden for anyone other than the . . ."

At that very moment, while Laurefin was in mid-sentence, the wide doors of the ballroom's entrance swung open.  Gilfanon had arrived.

Chapter End Notes

In the Pandë!verse, Laurefin is the son of Findis, eldest daughter of Indis and Finwë (see History of Middle-earth XII, "The Shibboleth of Fëanor"), and Lord Arandil, one of the favored among Finwë's court and the chief architect of Tirion. 

The monkeys' scandalous rendition of King Ingwë's music for his procession to the dinner table might just sound something like this, but rendered with little bitty instruments. That's Jean-Joseph Mouret's Rondeau, Suite No. 1, part of "Symphonies and Fanfares for the King's Supper," written for Louis XV of France.  Most readers will recognize it as the theme from Masterpiece Theatre. ;^)

All turned as one to watch the Lord of the House of the Hundred Chimneys enter the ballroom.  The guests at the rear pressed forward, craning their necks to get a better look at him, but Elrond had a good view from where he stood near the doors.  He scarcely recognized Gilfanon, who took one mincing step after another, an ivory and gold cane grasped in his left hand, and his right hand open, waving expansively to greet his guests.  To Elrond's eye, Gilfanon's every movement seemed choreographed to the music that the monkey orchestra played, the music intended only for the High King of All Elves.

To call Gilfanon's appearance outrageous was an understatement.  He was clad in what amounted to every color of the rainbow: a yellow fitted jacket, an orange ruffled shirt, and a lime-green vest.  A ruby red codpiece from which golden ribbons tumbled embellished snug blue breeches.  Purple hose hugged the well-turned calves of his legs, and he was shod with matching satin shoes decorated with wide gold buckles.  Elrond was astounded to see that Gilfanon had shaved off his pride and joy:  his beard.  His smooth cheeks were white with powder, and he had drawn a tiny black mark on his left cheek.

This was a lord of the manor who favored grey cloaks, brown trousers and plain linen shirts when he worked in his gardens or on the fields of his estate; this was a lord who donned tasteful silver, white and blue robes on formal occasions.  And now?  He would put a peacock to shame.  But more than his vibrant garb, it was his hair that made Gilfanon transcend the outrageous to become pure spectacle.

The white-blond extravagance was almost a third as high as Gilfanon was tall.  Strands of hair swept like wings from his forehead, his temples and the nape of his neck to form waves, teased out at the ends to resemble foam.  A small ship rode on one of the waves several inches above Gilfanon's pale brow.  Narrow plaits, beaded with blue and white jewels, looped and soared out from the waves, and then arced back to join the mass of hair that formed towering cliffs upon which little silver pine trees marched.  All swirled upward to form a cone at the very top of which teetered an ivory structure.  It looked like a grand temple with many columns. Small replicas of birds, which Elrond identified as eagles, were attached to thin wires that stuck out from all around the mountain of hair.  The birds bounced with every one of Gilfanon's steps.

A mountain of hair, thought Elrond.  Why, it's a model of Taniquetil!  Made of hair!

Like Elrond, most of the guests gawked at first, but within moments gave over to applause and laughter.  Elrond had to chuckle himself.  It was such an inventive costume!  No wonder Gilfanon had been delayed.

The Vanyarin delegation, however, neither clapped nor laughed.  Behind their veils, the women wore shocked expressions.  Two ladies had even swooned and were being fanned by their companions in an effort to revive them.  Elrond considered offering his assistance until he noted that the ladies' cheeks were pink and that beneath fluttering lashes, their eyes were bright. Elrond concluded the swoons were more affectation than a genuine concern.  However, when he shot a glance at Tárazmë, he thought he caught the twitch of a smile at the corners of her lips, but it could have been a trick of the light.

Save for two or three fellows with mouths tightened by suppressed grins, the Vanyarin men were grim as stone.  Elrond had thought Rilyazin had looked sour before, but that was nothing compared to the face of rage he wore now.

Gilfanon walked slowly toward the Vanyarin ambassador and stopped right in front of him just as the monkeys' music ended.  The Lord of the House of the Hundred Chimneys was a man of medium height, a bit stocky and broad-shouldered, but with his mountain of hair, he appeared to tower over the lanky Rilyazin.  Much to Elrond's amazement, Gilfanon achieved something that was an odd hybrid of a bow and a curtsey while keeping his head upright.  The mountain of hair remained in place although the eagles bobbed vigorously.

"My most felicitous greetings to you, Lord Rilyazin and Lady Tárazmë," Gilfanon said cheerfully.  "Welcome to my humble home. I must apologize for my tardiness in joining you, but it took me some time to . . . ah, prepare for the celebration.  I trust you saw the most beloved of roses, my lady?"  Gilfanon turned his most charming smile on Tárazmë whose blue eyes were wide.

"Oh, yes! I can see why you love Yavanno Tussa so well!"  Laurefin and Erestor both snorted and attempted to cover their mirth by feigning coughs, but Elrond knew better.  "Do you think you might give me a cutting of Yavanno Tussa so that I might take her back to my hothouse?"

"Why, of course, my dear lady. Yavanno Tussa can spare a sprig or three. She is, after all, very bushy."

"That does it!" yelled Rilyazin, all pretense of diplomacy now gone, not that he had displayed much earlier.  "You, Lord Gilfanon, have insulted us at every turn.  That vulgar name of the rose.  The immodest dress of these men!  Their. . .their sweatiness." He wrinkled his nose with distaste and continued to rant:  "That licentious dance performance.  Those trained monkeys playing the King's music.  And now this.  This!"  Rilyazin jabbed the air with his right forefinger, only inches from his host's face, while he berated Gilfanon, who listened with an expression that fell somewhere between boredom and bemusement.  "Only King Ingwë may wear hair styled as the Holy Mountain!  That, sir, is a forbidden hairstyle, and you are in grave danger for wearing it.  Grave danger, I say!"

With that, Rilyazin swung his arms wildly, but his grip on the glass he held slipped, and the glass went flying.  As sure as one of Elrond's shots on goal, the glass hurtled through the air to smash into the little stool upon which Lindelazië, the leader of the monkey orchestra, sat.  

Silence reigned in the ballroom for a single moment.  Then the monkey shrieked, and, baring his teeth, he launched himself from the stool to land on top of a Vanyarin lady's head.  The woman, in turn, screamed, adding to the monkey's agitation.

The remainder of the monkeys erupted from the stage to follow their leader, tossing aside their little instruments and leaping from head to head, while the man who might be a Fay hollered at them to behave but to no avail.  Lindelazië bounded from Vanya to Vanya, who were congregated closest to the stage: women's scarves became tangled and knocked askew; the men's hair wobbled back and forth and had to be steadied by frantic hands.

Lindelazië took a mighty leap from the head of one of the Vanyarin courtiers and landed squarely on Rilyazin's tower of hair.

The ambassador yelled, "Get that bloody thing off me!" and swatted at the monkey.  Lindelazië grimaced and evaded Rilyazin's flailing hands.  The monkey leapt again, easily spanning the short distance between Rilyazin and Gilfanon to land upon the Holy Mountain made of hair.  The eagles bounced wildly. He scrambled to the top, screeched, and ripped the replica of Manwë and Varda's palace from its moorings and flung it aside. Then the creature released Gilfanon's hair, scampered down to the floor and bounded toward the stage, hooting shrilly the whole way.

Elrond stood transfixed while Gilfanon and Rilyazin's mighty coifs trembled and shook.  Then slowly, oh, so slowly, like two great mountains tipping over, the towers of hair fell from their heads to lean upon one another briefly before each crashed into a hairy heap on the floor.

Gilfanon, his dark hair wrapped tight against his head with a silken scarf, barked with laughter, but Rilyazin, whose head sported only golden stubble, stood rigid with his jaw dropped.

"Why, why . . . I ought to — you should — Gilfanon, you . . ." the Vanya sputtered.

"I do so agree!" said Gilfanon.  "There's only one thing left to do now."  Then the Lord of the House of the Hundred Chimneys raised his arms and cried out:  "Let the music play!"

A buzzing drone filled the ballroom.  The Vanyar winced and raised their hands to cover their sensitive ears.  Elrond snapped around to see that the Fay and the monkeys of Oromë were now gone, replaced by another group of musicians, all men, all clad in kilts.  One of them, a robust-looking fellow, now called the attention of all the guests with the first notes on his bagpipes.

Just when Elrond thought Gilfanon could not produce more outrage, he topped himself.  Leave it to Gilfanon to add yet more controversy to this fiasco of a party!

Historically, the Elves had a mixed reaction to bagpipes.  Some deemed them Mannish instruments, said to have originated from the Followers deep in the mists of ancient times, and thus considered unworthy of Elvish arts.  Others called them an invention of Melkor, one that the Dark Lord had compelled the minstrel-thralls in his halls to play.  Indeed, the most skilled pipers had been those who were released from Angband by whatever whim Melkor had at the time.  But many Elves of Middle-earth embraced the high lonesome sound of the pipes, sounds that embodied regret and longing, but whose strange notes could also lift the spirit when played just right.

Save for one, the other musicians — a harpist, a man with a tin whistle and no less than three drummers — joined the bagpiper.  The last musician, a small wiry man with a hooked nose, raised the bow to his viol and drew it across the strings to produce a stream of fiery notes.  Elrond felt the music of fire course through his body, and the throbbing drums roused an insistent need to dance.

He was not the only one who felt the effects of the music. Gilfanon laughed and grabbed Lady Tárazmë's hands.  She shrieked, but it was a sound of delight.  They spun off together. Rilyazin stared, dumbfounded as his wife and the host of the party danced away from him.  Some of the Vanyar echoed their leader's stunned outrage, but others — men and women both — eagerly accepted offers to dance from the Tol Eressëans.

Elrond quickly followed the trend and offered his hand to one of the ladies who had swooned upon Gilfanon's entrance.  She hesitated, but after a furtive glance at Elrond's bare knees, she smiled and took his hand.  Together, they joined the reel on the dance floor.

The lights overhead twinkled like the stars themselves.  The bagpipes wailed, the fiddle sang and the drums throbbed with power.  Thus Elrond, in whose veins flowed the blood of Elf, Man and Fay, let the music engulf him and draw him completely into its spell.  It flowed through his muscles and bones to make his feet fly and let him leap like a stag.  He laughed as he had not laughed for many years.  He caught glimpses of Laurefin and Erestor, also dancing wildly with this partner and that one.  There was Gilfanon, who spun like a rainbow top with Tárazmë, who had discarded her flimsy head-scarf and robe.  She threw back her head, laughing with her many braids flying around her. Elrond glanced at the fiddle player and thought he saw the air shimmering up from the strings like heat from a fire.

Bewitched, all the dancers swirled around the dance floor. Elrond's partners changed again and again as the music took them all.  Music marred by Melkor, he thought as a graceful dark-haired woman twirled around him to be replaced by an equally graceful golden-haired man.  If this music is marred, then so am I.  Why, music much like this was good enough for the Hobbits of the Shire and the Men of Bree!  It is good enough for me.

Because of the music's enchantment, he was not altogether sure when the dance became a melee, but concluded that the moment when Rilyazin grabbed Gilfanon's arm and yelled, "Unhand my wife, you cad!" was likely the start of it.

Elrond's instincts as peacemaker took over when he saw the nascent altercation in the center of the ballroom.  He hastily excused himself from his dance partner and made his way through the surging throng, oblivious and rapt in the music's spell.  He arrived just in time, for Rilyazin had drawn his arm back, his hand balled into a fist, and was within seconds of striking Gilfanon, who was already anticipating the blow, and had begun to swerve aside.

Elrond called out, keeping his voice calm but firm, "Steady on there, my lord! There's no need for . . ."

Rilyazin swung wildly.  His fist connected with Elrond's right cheek, and the Vanya's rings dug into his flesh.

So it was that Elrond — wise Elrond, healer Elrond, kind as summer Elrond — hauled off and slammed his fist into Rilyazin's powdered jaw.  Then all hell broke loose.  Fists flew, sometimes connecting, sometimes not, strong arms pulled him away while the bagpipes keened, the fiddler played on and Gilfanon laughed like a madman, careening off to be swallowed by the mass of dancers and fighters.

~*~

Elrond pressed the ice pack against his right cheekbone as he watched Gilfanon's gardens turn rosy pink in the dawn light.  The morning air was gentle and still cool although the mists over the woods promised another humid day.  Sitting on a settle next to him, Laurefin sipped black coffee, and on the settle to the other side, Gilfanon, now dressed in a comfortable morning robe, stretched out his legs.  Their host sighed with satisfaction.

"Now that, my friends, was a successful party!"

"Successful?" snapped Elrond. "You call that drunken brawl of a party successful?  It was appalling.  You managed to insult Ingwë's ambassador, and worse, I struck him!  I do not know what came over me, and I am thoroughly ashamed of myself.  Oh, thank you."  He took a cup of steaming coffee from the maid who had appeared at his side.  He gratefully sipped the hot, bitter nectar.

"Ah, well, our baser behaviors get the better of us at times," said Gilfanon.  "You may be ashamed, but if I recall, you were a fearsome warrior back in the day.  Maybe your warrior was inclined to reveal himself last night?  But I call it successful because of these things: it showed our people that the Vanyar are only human, that we do not have to worship their poetry and song as superior to ours, and that it showed the Vanyar that they are capable of having fun.  Furthermore, we saw great diplomatic bridges built last night."

"How so?"

"Did you notice that the Vanyarin women were the first to laugh?  The first to dance?  The heart of any civilization beats in its women.  It is through them that one achieves understanding."  Gilfanon paused to sip his coffee.  "That Tárazmë is really something. Too bad she is wed to that stick of a Vanya."

"Speaking of the dance, the fiddler was on fire!" Laurefin interjected.

"Ha! Yes, Erdamol is amazing, isn't he?"  Gilfanon leaned back against the settle.  "Did you know that he was once a thrall of Melkor? It is said Erdamol played the viol beautifully in the court of Nolofinwë, but that Melkor captured him and compelled him to become one of his court musicians in Thangorodrim.  Erdamol placed a wager with the Black Foe that he could best all of the musicians in a fiddle-playing contest.  Erdamol won, and Melkor had to grant him his freedom."

"The Vanyar would be scandalized if they knew he had been a thrall," said Laurefin.  "But I must agree, Gilfanon, what a success!  Where is Erestor, by the way?  I haven't seen him since. . . well, quite some time ago."

"You didn't notice?"  Gilfanon raised his brows, now wiped clean of powder and dark again.  "He and one of Rilyazin's men — quite the handsome fellow, I must say — slipped off together last night.  I expect they're entangled in a guest room upstairs."

"Now there's an act of diplomacy!  Well, all power to him," Laurefin replied.

"Mmmm, yes, but I think it's not a serious act.  After all, Erestor prefers dark-haired men, especially those who slay valaraucar and play the flute surpassingly well."

"Really?  Are you saying . . ."

"Yes. That's what I'm saying.  Our friend Erestor has been pining for Ecthelion ever since he first set eyes on your old friend from Gondolin.  Erestor is not given to sentiment so he would never admit to such an infatuation, and you've been too wrapped up in your own problems to see it."

Elrond lifted the ice pack from his cheek.  "There you have it. You ought to play matchmaker, Laurefin."

"I'm not so successful in that role, but that's an interesting bit of information I'll tuck away for further use."

"Speaking of interesting bits of information, I am curious."  Gilfanon picked up a sweet roll from a plate mounded high with the sticky brown delicacies that a maid had brought out to the terrace.  "What was that you gave Rilyazin before he, ah, departed so hastily?"

Laurefin's grin was evil.  "A comb.  A beautiful carved comb. Inlaid with mother-of-pearl, too.  Quite precious.  I don't think he appreciated it."

Elrond envisioned Rilyazin's blond stubble and the incongruity of a comb.  He swallowed the coffee quickly so he did not spit it all over himself and his friends when he guffawed.

All three men were laughing when Manetur walked out onto the terrace, his demeanor calm and measured as always.  He carried a silver tray upon which were two vellum envelopes.

"An eagle arrived this morning, bearing messages for Lord Elrond and Lord Laurefin."  He held the tray forward so that Elrond and Laurefin could take the envelopes.

Elrond flipped over the envelope to break the seal.  A shiver of dread shot through him.  It was the seal of the High King.  He cracked it open, while Laurefin did the same with his.  Elrond read the message and re-folded the letter.  He leaned back on the settle and put the ice pack against his face.  His head was starting to ache.

"Well?"  Gilfanon asked, cocking his head to the side with a look of expectation.

"I have been summoned to Valmar, to the court of Ingwë where I am to explain last night's events."

"Splendid!" crowed Gilfanon. "And Laurefin, what does your message say?"

"I, too, am summoned to the court of Ingwë.  Grandmother wishes to see me."

"Even better!  Now I truly declare my party a rousing success!"

"Stars' blood!" Elrond's head throbbed. "Why do you keep saying that?"

Gilfanon's smile fell away, and his expression became solemn. "King Ingwë means well with these overtures, but they are not particularly effective when we are made to feel inferior to the Vanyar.  They have always thought themselves superior, but in reality, they are no different than we are.  Elrond, you do know that I am of the Tatyar, one of the Unbegotten?"

"The Tatyar part yes, but I did not know you were of the Unbegotten,"  Elrond answered.  Although he suspected Gilfanon might be among the eldest of the Eldar, that had not been confirmed until now.

"Yes, I am one of those who awoke near the Lake of our beginnings.  I am one of those who still have the strange dreams that cannot be explained, and I am one of those who marched with the Vanyar who were as cold, wet, dirty and hungry as the rest of us.  Their descendants may have forgotten their roots, but Ingwë has not, nor have I."

Gilfanon took a large bite of sweet roll, chewed thoughtfully, and then swallowed before he continued.  "There's a lot of bad blood because of the Rebellion, and both sides have been slow to forgive.  Does it serve us well to have a pompous ass of a Vanya play ambassador, a position he surely gained through the favoritism that is rife in Ingwë's court?  Or would all be served better by a glorious mongrel of a man whose ancestors are counted among all three tribes of the Caliquendi and of the Elves of the Twilight, not to mention the heroes of Men and an enchantress of the Fays?"

"Gilfanon, really now . . ."

"I am serious, Elrond.  You must be the one to bridge the gaps amongst us all.  I can think of no one better for the job, as long as you keep your fists to yourself.  And you . . ."  He looked from beneath his brows at Laurefin.  "You need to get yourself to the mainland and not just because of your dear grandmother.  You know why."

"I know," Laurefin said quietly, folding the envelope.  "What about you, Gilfanon?  Why haven't you been summoned?  One might say that you precipitated last night's events with the name of the rose, those monkeys and that wig."

"Ingwë knows I'll come regardless.  No need for him to waste paper on me.  Oh, Manetur!"  Gilfanon called to his butler, who stood discreetly nearby.  "You say an eagle brought these messages? By any chance, did it . . . "

"Yes, it did," the unflappable servant answered his master's query before he finished.  "I have already asked the stable hands to clean the cobblestones."

"Ai! Manwë has it in for me, I swear!"  Gilfanon sighed, resting against the cushion.  "Be sure the stable hands save the eagle droppings.  They make excellent compost.  And see to it that cuttings are taken from the rose to send to Lady Tárazmë."

"Very good, sir."

With that, the morning sunlight shone bright upon Yavanno Tussa, whose blossoms began to unfurl with joy. 

~*~

The carriage swayed gently as the horses drew it along the road back to Kortirion.  Cailor, whose braids had partially unraveled and were missing their bells, sat hunched over in the driver's seat, apparently suffering the aftereffects of a lively night at the Tank.  The sun shone from midway up in the morning sky, and it was already hot.  The first order of business when he arrived at home, Elrond decided, was a bath.

Laurefin hummed to himself while he watched the neatly tended fields and woodlands pass by.  The area around his eyes was less swollen but shaded purple as Elrond's prediction of black eyes was borne out.  He turned to Elrond.

"Shall I book your passage on the ferry, too?"

"If you would, please.  Where do you plan to go first?  Valmar or Mandos?"

Laurefin answered without hesitation: "Mandos.  I can only hope Mélamírë will forgive me."

"You have done nothing unforgivable.  I am certain that both she and Ecthelion will forgive you, and I am also sure you will earn the gift of their forgiveness."

"The gift of forgiveness.  Yes, it is a gift, but whether I am worthy or not . . ."

"Oh, enough of that!  You are more than worthy.  There are those who are less worthy who have been forgiven of their transgressions.  Far less worthy.  Then there are those who are generous of heart who withhold the gift of forgiving.  Yet we should not fault them for doing so.  Only they can know the extent of suffering at another's hands."

"What do you mean, Elrond?  There's a tale behind your musings, I can tell."

"There is."  Elrond had wanted to tell Laurefin about the journey to Mandos he had undertaken some years ago, before Laurefin returned to the West, and now seemed to be an opportune time.  "Not long after I arrived in Elvenhome with Frodo and Bilbo, Lord Námo summoned the hobbits to his halls, and I was requested to be their escort."

"To the halls of Mandos?"  Laurefin visibly shuddered.  "Not a place I'd expect to find a pair of nice hobbits.  Wasn't that dangerous for them?  It is not in a mortal's best interest to set foot in the lands of the Guardians.  Burns up their life energy too fast, according to the theory, that is."

"That is why the journey occurred after the hobbits had enough time to recover, at least to some degree, from their ordeals in Middle-earth but before they aged much more.  We did not linger long in the Halls of Mandos."

"May I ask the purpose of the journey?"

"They were summoned to meet with him. With Sauron."

Laurefin flinched.  "Don't you mean Aulendil?  Or Mairon?"

"No, he insists on being called Sauron these days.  Claims he deserves it, according to what he told Frodo."

Laurefin looked stunned.  "You mean to say that Frodo and Bilbo actually confronted him?"

"Yes. Sauron is making amends, part of his so-called rehabilitation, according to Olórin, who counsels him."

"So how did that go?"

"Frodo came out of it exhausted but exhilarated, too.  He said that Sauron apologized to him, but also said he did not expect forgiveness from Frodo.  The hobbit said that was good, because he could not give it to him.  Oddly, Frodo seemed to heal more quickly after the experience.  He said that even though he could never forgive Sauron, he came to understand him a bit better, and that confronting Sauron was 'cathartic' as he described it."

"Cathartic? Sounds like one of Olórin's odd expressions."

"It is."

"And what of Bilbo?"

"Ah! Now that was very interesting.  Bilbo came out of the meeting stinking of pipeweed and with whisky on his breath.  He said that he and Sauron smoked together and shared a dram. He said they had quite a conversation."

"Did Bilbo forgive Sauron?"

"No, he did not.  But the two of them struck up a correspondence."

"A correspondence? Stars' mercy!"

"Yes, you know how inquisitive Bilbo is . . . was." Elrond corrected himself.  "I have a whole stack of letters those two exchanged before Bilbo died. Lord Námo returned those that Bilbo had written, save for a few that he allowed Sauron to keep."

"Extraordinary!  Yes, I should like to read those letters if I might.  Mélamírë should read them, too."

"You both may read them.  But there is one who has forgiven Sauron."

"Who might that be?"

"Why do you think Findaráto's manse is vacant?"

Laurefin raised his brows.  "I assumed that it is because he prefers to spend his time on the mainland so that Amarië may be closer to her family.  But you're saying that it not the only reason?"

"Correct. It is largely because of his wife and her family that he remains in Aman.  That manse is just a summer home for them.  But he also visits the Halls of Mandos with some regularity.  He was among the first to speak to Sauron after the Valar gave him his human form again.  As little as might be thought, Findaráto not only forgave him, but they have become friendly with one another."

"Friendly?  Stars' blood!  Even after the Songs of Power?  The imprisonment? The death of his men at the fangs of those devil-wolves?  His own death?"

"Findaráto has the most generous heart among us all."

"He does at that."  Laurefin looked out again the fields that passed by.  "As little as might be thought," he mused before he turned back to Elrond.  "Well, in light of all that, perhaps you're right.  What I have done is not unforgivable, but I need to speak honestly and openly with both Mélamírë and Ecthelion.  And if Frodo and Bilbo, of all people, could endure speaking with him, then I, well, I should support my wife, shouldn't I?  This will be terribly difficult for her."

"It will be.  So, yes, she needs you.  Valmar and your grandmother can wait a while.  I'll travel with you as far as Tirion, but then we will part ways."

"That sounds like a plan.  You know, Elrond, you've given me hope that the Vanyar will forgive the Noldor and vice versa, and that I may be forgiven, too, for handling things so awkwardly with my wife and Ecthelion.  If Findaráto can forgive Sauron, and they can become cordial with one another, then anything is possible."

"I agree.  Anything is possible."

The carriage rolled through the streets of Kortirion, busy with people on their morning errands.  A familiar sign swung over the street ahead. Laurefin called out to the driver.

"Cailor, stop the carriage here, please."

He leaned forward and embraced Elrond, slapping him on the back.  "It has been quite an evening, old friend. I'll be in touch about our departure.  But with all this talk of reconciliation, there's someone I must see before I leave."

Laurefin stepped out of the carriage, and Elrond watched him walk beneath the swinging sign with a flute and stars carved on it.  He heard Laurefin say "Ecthelion?" his voice full of supplication, and the answer returned, not curt and sharp as it had been before, but softened, a receptive voice with undertones that suggested Yes, I will hear you.

The carriage rolled out of Kortirion and followed the road into the hills of the surrounding countryside.  In the distance, Elrond saw the elms of his estate.  In addition to soaking in the bath, he must send word straightaway to Celebrían to tell her that he had been summoned to Valmar and ask that she join him there.  Oh, what a tale he had to tell her!

Mingled with the dread he felt at the prospect of facing the court of the High King was a thrill of excitement.  Even if he was apprehensive of what might lay in store for him, it represented another challenge, and he welcomed it, just like he welcomed the match when he faced off against Mablung.  He rubbed his hairy knees and smiled.  If he never wore a kilt again, he'd be ecstatic.  Nevertheless, he knew he would keep the garment as a memento of a night to remember, a night of roses and ohta paliso, a night of dancing and monkeys and outrageous wigs, a night when anything was possible.

Gilfanon by Elf of Cave

Cigars, a Pipe, and Whisky with Bilbo, Gandalf, and Sauron