A Rose By Any Other Name by pandemonium_213

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Chapter 6: A Night to Remember

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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