A Rose By Any Other Name by pandemonium_213

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Chapter 1: An Invitation

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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.

 

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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.