A Rose By Any Other Name by pandemonium_213

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Chapter 4: Enter the Dragon

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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.        

 

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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).