It had been a long and tiring year for both Manadhlaer and Curulinn, including, on one memorable occasion, both simultaneously. Snow lay on the High Moor, and while it seemed like autumn yet lingered in the Vale, Turuhalmë had just passed. Someone had gifted the healers a large supply of the sweet biscuits charmingly referred to as "cookies" by i Pheriannaith, the Shire-folk, and Manadhlaer's wine-cellar was legendary -- if somewhat diminished since Lord Anglachelm had spent a night in it. Upon receipt of the parcel, the Falmarë and the Noldë had glanced at each other and, with unspoken but perfect agreement, betaken themselves to the great building in which the healers of Vanimar were accustomed to care for patients. Curulinn proudly carried the wine, a bottle each of red and white, and Manadhlaer bore the parcel of goodies.
Unusually for a holiday, the great halls were empty. Not a single patient in sight. Nobody needed burn salve, bandages, stitches, splinting... any of it. Nobody had been scraped out of the Trollshaws by scouts and brought in for healing. Thus it was that Curulinn sank down in one of the very wheeled chairs she had so despised using during the recovery of her feet, and Manadhlaer flopped down on a rug woven by none other than Captain Himwen -- how odd, she thought, that such a hardened warrior had created such soft rugs. Each elleth selected a fat textbook, which did perfectly well for comfort reading -- Curulinn, always an odd duck, chose On the Treatment of Overconsumption of Strong Drink, while Manadhlaer preferred herb-lore -- and they clinked glasses.
"White as sea-foam," Manadhlaer said, both as a toast and a statement of fact.
"Red as blood," Curulinn answered, also both ritually and factually.
Then they set to the cookies, if so they were called. The only sounds besides chewing and sipping were the turning of pages and the soft plashing of the hallway fountain.
"Hmm," said Manadhlaer, contemplating what appeared to have been baked into the shape of a Yule-tree and covered with some sort of green sugar glaze.
Curulinn, as ever, was somewhat more taciturn than the often-wordy Lady of the Pillar. "Mm." She brandished the lower half of a cookie baked in the shape of a Dwarf, which smelled enticingly of ginger.
Hours passed, in which many a page was turned and many a cookie demolished. Finally Manadhlaer sat up, and as soon became apparent, felt compelled to make some sort of statement. "You know..."
"Mm?" Curulinn looked slightly guilty as she wiped powdered sugar from her chin.
"This was a good idea."
"I cannot claim credit for this, Lady. After all, we would not have these sweets if not for--"
"Yes, you can." Manadhlaer smiled and reached for the last ginger-Dwarf.
With thanks to Vanimar for a fantastic 15th year,
and to Applecider, who accidentally inspired this
