It was not, as such things went, a terribly dramatic meeting. Manadhlaer had taken her mare for a walk, as she did regularly at the advice of the horse-expert Nenrildë -- and while Milkthistle was a game creature and held her head high, the rider felt the weariness of the beast as if it were her own. She would need pasturing soon, and a retirement from adventure.
Coming the other way, toward the Hall of the Pillar, was Glorfingwë in his pale blue robes. Both reined in their horses and hailed each other.
"I was just admiring the dwellings," Glorfingwë said. Manadhlaer looked past him to the little homes tucked into the end of the vale -- some silent, some joyously decorated. Sne nodded, as if in deep thought.
"I frequently admire Telpenaro's home," Manadhlaer confessed, "for it always smells delicious."
Glofingwë laughed, a sound that heartened the Telerë. She slid gently from Milkthistle's bare back, to unburden her, and Glorfingwë dismounted as well. In no time at all, while the horses wandered, the two stood facing the tiny stream -- not even a proper tributary of the Bruinen, really. It could almost be stepped across in a single stride, and could easily be waded. Yet it was cold and clear, and Glorfingwë drank of it gladly.
The two of them, remnants of the Elder Days, stood reminiscing and sadly contemplating the end of their time on these shores. Manadhlaer looked at the Noldo, deep in thought. "Have you many reunions to look forward to when we all sail?"
"Many indeed. Family, and one who was the brightest light of my heart. Family of friends."
Manadhlaer felt the words keenly, and sighed. "I suppose Sergeant Daegond will be a guest in the Halls of Mandos for a very long time. He was a follower of Maedhros." She glanced at Glorfingwë, who had his own painful history with Fëanor the Cruel, but he seemed not in the least offended.
"I have not heard it said that Lord Ñamó was unjust," Glorfingwë answered.
"I do not call him unjust," Manadhlaer said. "I merely wish that we might borrow back one or two of our warriors, even for a short time." She stooped and found a smooth pebble, which she tossed lightly into the stream before them, as if in offering.
Glorfingwë gazed still at the dance of sun upon water. Manadhlaer thought a moment.. "We have a saying -- one cannot step in the same stream twice. The encounter changes both."
"No indeed! Then I would be clean, and the water dirty." Glorfingwë grinned, and Manadhlaer laughed despite herself. Then Glorfingwë looked down the lane, and Manadhlaer followed his gaze. Telpenaro approached, on foot but burdened with several bundles. This was always a good sign.
The first bundle to be set down was the patient but queenly Mintel, the soft grey cat who had followed Telpenaro home from his fishing-trip in hopes of a boon. Now she looked upon the Eldar as if they were her subjects, but pushed her head against both Glorfingwë and Manadhlaer. "That means she has claimed you both for her own," Telpenaro said.
"Wise indeed, to claim a healer!" Manadhlaer petted the cat, to whom she had indeed rendered undignified but timely help in the birthing of her kittens. Glorfingwë equally made a fuss over Mintel, even as Telpenaro further unburdened himself of a blanket to sit on and a basket that made a promising clink. And indeed, as if summoned by the tiny noise, the light-footed dance-instructor Merenellon drew near. Beckoned by all, Merenellon saw Telpenaro unpacking the basket and clapped his hands in joy.
There were small round pastries, the kind Telpenaro flavoured with almond, that were two wafers joined by a layer of smooth icing. These had been made in several joyful colours, and indeed some of the pastries seemed to wear the motley of a jester. Glorfingwë fairly bounced from foot to foot, while Manadhlaer sat on the blanket immediately, knowing what would follow. As the cat inspected Merenellon and found him satisfactory, Telpenaro pointed a bottle of sparkling wine away from his friends and opened it with a loud pop.
Glorfingwë took a pastry cautiously, as if embarrassed to do so. "I merely went for a ride along the road and met Manadhlaer," he said, "and so am empty-handed. This is a most precious gift, Telpenaro."
Manadhlaer also seemed a trifle apologetic, although this did not stop her from falling upon the cookies like one of Sorontar's hawks upon a mouse. "We fell to talking, and grew heedless of the hour -- but it all seems to have worked perfectly." Glorfingwë and Merenellon nodded and waved pastries in agreement.
"It is gift enough to share these with you," Telpenaro said, and indeed the relaxation -- could one say relief? -- that the act of creation brought to the warrior was evident on his face.
Manadhlaer smiled, a bit slyly. "I should be delighted to share a bite with friends, even if all we had were horse-crackers." Telpenaro laughed out loud, remembering a time when Parnard, an ellon splendidly unsuited to military life, had had a violent reaction to eating precisely that by mistake.
None of the four friends had been able to resist the bright treats and the sparkling wine -- Telpenaro observed that the bubbles felt festive upon the lips -- but somewhat belatedly, Manadhlaer brushed a few crumbs away and lifted her glass. "Friends, a toast, and it is a very simple one: to Vanimar! May our Lord's mercy guide us during the next round of the seasons." The others assented to this, Merenellon in particular radiating pride and enthusiasm. Mintel wandered among them, seemingly not tempted by their fare but feeling it too requied inspection.
Glorfingwë eloquently elevated the pastries above other works of art. "I could gaze at the finest-wrought statue, contemplate matters for hours, and for my part it would not compare with the enjoyment I feel from such fine things as these."
Telpenaro nodded. "My craft is the kind that must always be done all over again, but always for the best of purposes: to be shared."
The four friends, watched always by Mintel, rambled over many topics in their conversation. Glorfingwë told a highly improbable but amusing tale about a talking shrew ordering wine in the Shire, and discussed an elixir to bring clarity of mind. They all debated the intelligence of many sorts of birds, not without a sigh for the curiously absent Sorontar; Manadhlaer declared firmly that ravens had keener wit than hawks or owls, shown in their sense of play -- they might splash in muddy waters, but, she said, lore-masters declared them at least as intelligent as a Mannish boy of seven or eight years old. Mintel, though unspeaking, eventually dominated the conversation, claiming Merenellon by rubbing against him too and decorating his trousers with some of her fur.
"Such regal bearing!" Manadhlaer said, and then grew inspired. "She is the Grey Lady of the Hidden Vale."
Not all moments to come would be as peaceful as this impromptu picnic. All knew it. Telpenaro's hands were likely to lay down his baking implements and take up his spear again before long, and Glorfingwë and Manadhlaer had already briefly discussed the prisoner who languished in the cells beneath Hammer Hall. But for this moment, a few pastries and some wine, graced by the general approval of a cat -- all of this, this brief gathering, would do. It was enough.
