A Rose By Any Other Name by pandemonium_213

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Chapter 5: The Name of the Rose

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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.

 

 

 

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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. ;^)