A Rose By Any Other Name by pandemonium_213

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Chapter 3: Lo! The Violet!

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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!"

 

 

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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.