Day 27 - When We Were Young
Title: When We Were Young
Author: Grundy (jerseyfabulous)
Rating: FR13
Crossover: LotR
Disclaimer: All belongs to Joss and Tolkien. Except for the lyrics, which belong to Adele. No money is being made here, it's all in good fun.
Summary: Buffy can't help but remember.
Word Count: 3000. Exactly. Which took some doing.
Everything just takes me back
To when you were there
To when you were there
She hadn’t intended to pass that way at all, but the fourth level had suffered greatly from Mordor’s trebuchets in the assault on the city. Passing straight through to the fifth level by the usual routes was not possible. Many roads were dangerous with buildings damaged and rubble yet uncleared- the Rath Erain was actually blocked and guarded as unpassable. Unexpectedly, this left Rath Besoneth the clearest road that would take her up to the next level, and onward to the Citadel.
Anariel wondered idly if the city name would remain as it was, or if it would change now that Sauron was defeated and they no longer had to guard against the Enemy.
She tried not to look closely at her surroundings. She didn’t want to remember right now.
Not only had she loved the White City in its own right, the time she had dwelled there stood out in her memory as a golden time, when they had still been carefree and invincible, before the days darkened and the losses began. Though she, Willow, and Tara spent most of their time on the higher levels, the Scoobies had shared a cozy house here on the fourth, where Xander and Anya had worked as well.
She had deliberately not gone down the street they had lived on. Whether the House of the Star of High Hope was still standing or not, she didn’t want to know. She certainly didn’t want to see any of the carving or carpentry Xander had done.
But there was another spot dear to them she could hardly avoid passing. To her surprise she found the bakery they had always thought of as ‘theirs’ was still there - for a wonder, undamaged - and still in business.
The smell wafting through the open doors beneath the sign of the Western Sun was enough to bring the memories unbidden.
---
And a part of me keeps holding on
Just in case it hasn't gone
“Buff, you have got to try this!”
A baked good was waved under her nose, so close that she couldn’t have said what it was, though she could feel that it was still warm, not more than a quarter hour from the oven at most.
Xander grinned as she nearly went cross-eyed trying to focus on the morsel.
“Just taste it,” he snickered.
She didn’t object, since the lone male Scoobie could generally be counted on when it came to sugary goodness. This time was no exception.
The flaky pastry gave way to a lemony filling that was just the right balance of sweet and tart. She glared at him when he tried to retrieve the rest of the treat.
“Where did you find this?” she demanded.
“Not you, too!” Anya groaned.
“You cannot possibly object…” Xander began.
“I don’t object to you bringing home baked goods, provided you also bring home some orders for work that pays,” Anya said briskly. “We aren’t supposed to be living here for free, you know, and the research project doesn’t exactly bring in the cash.”
Buffy tried not to look too guilty. She had paid the rent on the house they had taken for half a year up front. Given what mortals would pay for elven-made goods, the cost of renting a decent house, even in the finest neighborhoods of Gondor’s capital city, was no big deal. They had actually decided on restraint and gone for a more modest residence in what seemed like a middle-class section of the city, populated mainly by merchants and officers in the city guard.
But as the months wore on, they had to at least look like it made sense that they were financially self-sufficient, or their neighbors might wonder how they could afford to live there when the man of the house didn’t appear to be working enough to pay for it.
The healing that Willow and Tara did on the side was generally paid for in kind, not in money. Buffy herself brought in small change by giving lessons a few mornings a week, basic reading and writing, to children whose families either could not afford or did not want to hire a formal tutor.
Their real occupation was a massive effort to discover anything useful about Sauron or other leftovers of Morgoth that might be buried in the archives of the Citadel. Willow, Tara, and Buffy were doing most of the actual searching, bringing home notes that Anya and Xander helped them review in the evenings. Xander, unfortunately, was barred from more active participation by both his lesser proficiency in the older modes of Sindarin and Adunaic used in the earliest chronicles. And Anya didn’t trust him not to get himself into trouble left entirely to his own devices all day.
“Relax, Ahn,” Xander said with a reassuring smile. “I have orders. Several of them. One is for a new counter from the man who makes these - he liked the idea that I could make a hinged countertop for his shop with a seam so smooth no one would notice it unless he needed to open it up to get out from behind the counter in a hurry. And before you ask, I did not accept payment in pastry, tempting as it was.”
“Good,” Anya replied, mollified. “Because the wife of the guard captain next door has been asking odd questions lately. You’re supposed to be an amazing carpenter, but no one around here knows your work and she’s getting suspicious.”
Anya, as an ostensible housewife, knew the women of the neighborhood fairly well by now, from countless conversations conducted over the garden wall, while out shopping or taking deliveries from the butcher or greengrocer, or trading eggs from the hens she was keeping.
“If this job works out,” Xander said confidently, “I suspect half this circle will know about my skills. The Western Sky seems to be the place to go in Bakers’ Street.”
---
It was just like a movie
It was just like a song
My God, this reminds me
Of when we were young
“So you’re Master Axantur’s little sister, then?”
The man behind the recently improved counter had forearms the size of small tree trunks. Buffy tried not to gape. She hadn’t realized normal mortals' arms could get that big. To be honest, she couldn’t see why he needed a counter he could get out from behind in a hurry - a man with arms like that should only need to glare for any troublemakers to decide to go elsewhere.
“That’s me,” she said with a polite smile. “And you must be Master Orchaldor. I think he took the job with you just so he’d know when you were bringing those lemon morsels out of the oven.”
“If that’s what you’re after, you’re in luck, young miss. There’s a fresh batch just cooling - but you could smell that from the street, I’ll wager.”
“I could,” she grinned. “Which is what made me think I’d better stop in and pick up enough for everyone.”
“And who would ‘everyone’ be?” the baker asked, already wrapping several of the coveted treats in paper for her. “Seems to me I’ve not met the whole household yet - a bit curious, as most of your neighbors come to me for their bread.”
Buffy sighed inwardly. Trying to fit in was much harder than they’d expected, but being able to live like regular folk, with no one gawking at her or demanding she behave like she’d stepped out of a song was more than worth it.
“Aye,” she agreed ruefully. “We don’t get out as much as we might. I’m mostly kept busy assisting my sister Tasariel and her friend Gilornel. They’re healers, and trying to rediscover some of the ancient herb lore brought from Numenor.”
“Managed to gain admission to the archives, did they? Lord Ecthelion must think they have a good chance of succeeding if he granted them permission,” Orchaldor mused. “Though it’s easy enough to see where it would be to the good. Too many died in that fever last winter, more than might have if our healers had not lost so much knowledge through the years.”
He set a wrapped packet on the counter.
“Well, young lady, there’s your lemon dainties, and mind you tell your sister should she come across anything about edible herbs in her reading, I’m a man who’s not averse to trying something new in my bakery - or something old, as may be!”
Buffy smiled, a genuine smile this time, as she tried to hand over several coins.
“Leave it, child,” Orchaldor said. “Your law-sister overpaid when she was here this morning - my daughter doesn’t know her sums as well as she should yet. Beg my pardon of Mistress Almiel, and tell her this evens the account.”
“I do know my sums!” an indignant little voice piped up.
The girl couldn’t have been more than eight, barely tall enough to peep over the counter, and Buffy guessed if she’d been minding the shop in the morning, it had been with the aid of a step-stool.
“You’re getting better, Gilien,” her father told her gently, “But you did tot up Mistress Almiel’s order incorrectly, and if we make a habit of shortchanging our customers, they’ll no longer buy from us, but from Master Baranor or Master Glavrion.”
“Perhaps you should come to me on Fridays,” Buffy suggested. “I teach children your age reading, writing, and reckoning.”
The girl’s eyes had brightened at the mention of other children, but her face fell quickly.
“I’m not a boy,” she muttered. “And Da needs me here in the shop.”
Orchaldor seemed to be considering the notion, however.
“Well, I don’t know as I can’t spare you one morning a week,” he said thoughtfully. “And maybe it’s as needful for a girl with no older brothers to learn how to figure and write properly as it would be for a lad.”
Gilien turned hopeful eyes to her father.
“Really?” she asked, breathless with disbelief.
“If she brings a dozen such dainties whenever she comes, would that be enough to pay for her teaching, Miss Noliel?” the baker asked.
“Of course,” Buffy replied. “I’ll look for you the day after tomorrow then, Gilien.”
---
Let me photograph you in this light
In case it is the last time
That we might be exactly like we were
Before we realized
“Anya, run and see if Orchaldor has any stale bread he’ll sell us cheap,” Buffy ordered, not quite desperate.
Thanksgiving wasn’t a tradition of Gondor, but it was a tradition of Sunnydale, and one they had kept every year since coming to Middle Earth. She wasn’t about to let it slip now - especially when living in a city made putting together a proper turkey feast less difficult than in Lothlorien, where they’d celebrated last year.
The turkey itself was no problem, nor potatoes. Corn had yet to catch on in Gondor, but Tara had brought some seeds with her, and Anya had not only coaxed them into flourishing in the small back garden but managed to preserve some until autumn. Dried corn wouldn’t be good for eating on its own, but Buffy had made it work for cornbread. Her amazing big brothers had taken the trouble to send pumpkins all the way from Imladris, so they would be able to do pumpkin pie.
Stuffing, however, Buffy had nearly forgotten about. And she didn’t have a lot of time to throw it together - the bird would need to be stuffed and in the oven within the hour if they were going to eat tonight and not tomorrow.
Anya had only just made it to the door when someone rapped on it from the outside.
“Who on earth can be calling now?” she muttered. “Everyone knows Xander isn’t available to work today!”
They’d explained their odd, Thursday feast as a family tradition, commemorating a long-dead ancestor, to anyone who had asked - and quite a few had, for Xander was much in demand. His natural talents as a carpenter had been honed by two decades of elvish tutelage, leaving him far superior to woodworkers trained by mortals. He was known not only throughout the fourth circle, but even higher in the city, with commissions coming in from the wealthy and the nobility as word - and sight - of his skill spread. Thus his recent announcement that he would not work on a weekday had occasioned quite a bit of surprise.
“With Da’s compliments, Mistress,” Gilien chirped, handing over a sack. “Miss Noliel told us last week of the supper you’re to have, and explained many of the dishes to me. So I set aside some of yesterday’s bread.”
“Kiss that girl!” Buffy yelled from the kitchen.
Gilien had become one of her best students, learning not only math and basic literacy, but moving on to more advanced reading. She had taken Willow and Tara as a model, saying if they could rediscover herb lore, perhaps she might rediscover Numenorian recipes and baking techniques. They had promised they would take her to the archives as a treat when she was old enough that the archivists would not bar her.
“I think letting her watch would be a fairer reward,” Anya retorted. “She’s going to run that bakery some day - show her how to make pumpkin pie!”
---
We were sad of getting old
It made us restless
“But Miss Noliel, you will come back, won’t you?”
Ten years had passed in the blink of an eye. For the first time, Buffy was starting to understand what it meant to be an elf. Time simply didn’t have the same hold on her - but she could see it starting to leave its mark on the Scoobies.
While they could all have happily stayed longer, if she was going to put the next part of her plan in action, they needed to go soon. Mordor’s power was growing with every year. And this was not an adventure for the middle-aged.
Besides, if they waited much longer, it might be too dangerous to do what she was contemplating.
Unfortunately, that meant bidding their many friends in Minas Tirith farewell - after coming up with a suitable story for what they were doing.
The idea that Xander wished to travel to Far Harad to attempt to bring back some of their famous warmwood was widely accepted, though his foolishness in dragging his wife and sisters with him was deplored- for few undertook that journey, and fewer still returned.
“I certainly expect so!” Buffy replied, doing her best to sound reassuring.
In truth, she would certainly come back to Minas Tirith at some point, but depending on how long it took Sauron’s plans to come to a head, it might be long after Gilien had died.
“But the journey may take some years,” Buffy continued. “Who knows, by the time I return, you may be running the Western Sky!”
“I shall make sure to have the lemon dainties ready when you come in,” Gilien said bravely. “They’re everyone’s favorite.”
---
Oh, I'm so mad I'm getting old
It makes me reckless
Anariel’s shoulders sagged. They never had gotten back to Minas Tirith as a group. And there would be no baked goods for Xander, Willow, Tara, and Anya ever again.
Yet, she couldn’t pass by and not stop in.
She braced herself, as for a fight, and entered.
The young man behind the counter was unfamiliar to her, though his eyes and the shape of his arms put her in mind of Orchaldor.
“Well met, my lady,” he greeted her politely, and her heart ached afresh to be greeted as a stranger rather than as the regular she once had been. “How may I help you?”
“I was passing by and smelled fresh lemon dainties,” she began, only to be cut off by a startled noise from the back room.
The woman who pushed the curtain aside had many lines on her face, and hair white as snow, but the eyes were Gilien’s eyes, bright and clear even after all these years.
“Lady Noliel!” she exclaimed. “Back at last!”
The shop boy looked startled.
“I knew it,” Gilien continued. “I just knew in my bones that I needed to make them again today. I would not have expected it to be you walking in after all these years, but here you are.”
“My grandmother hasn’t baked these pastries since I was very young,” the lad explained. “We thought it a strange fancy of hers to insist on it today when most people will want only bread or hearty pies with so much heavy work to be done.”
“I don’t suppose Master Axantur or your sisters have come back, have they?” Gilien asked. “We’ve always feared you would come to misadventure, running off to foreign parts, even if warmwood was so pretty.”
Anariel smiled, though she felt the tears pricking her eyes as she did.
“They would have loved to come,” she said quietly. “I’m afraid they fell in the War.”
Gilien nodded slowly, as if she understood all that was not being said.
“That’s a shame. I had always hoped to have all of you sat round a table once more before I go. Yet somehow it feels right that they should have fallen in defense of the White City, for they loved it so.”
Anariel nodded.
“They did,” she agreed softly.
Gilien passed her a small packet.
“I’ve never handed you only one, and now does not seem the time to start. You’ll find someone to share them with, I’ve no doubt.”
“Aye,” Anariel said quietly. “I will.”
They’d always said the Western Sky’s lemon dainties were fit for a king. She’ll give one to Estel, and maybe she can bear to tell him the story that goes with it.
It was just like a movie
It was just like a song
When we were young
Author: Grundy (jerseyfabulous)
Rating: FR13
Crossover: LotR
Disclaimer: All belongs to Joss and Tolkien. Except for the lyrics, which belong to Adele. No money is being made here, it's all in good fun.
Summary: Buffy can't help but remember.
Word Count: 3000. Exactly. Which took some doing.
Everything just takes me back
To when you were there
To when you were there
She hadn’t intended to pass that way at all, but the fourth level had suffered greatly from Mordor’s trebuchets in the assault on the city. Passing straight through to the fifth level by the usual routes was not possible. Many roads were dangerous with buildings damaged and rubble yet uncleared- the Rath Erain was actually blocked and guarded as unpassable. Unexpectedly, this left Rath Besoneth the clearest road that would take her up to the next level, and onward to the Citadel.
Anariel wondered idly if the city name would remain as it was, or if it would change now that Sauron was defeated and they no longer had to guard against the Enemy.
She tried not to look closely at her surroundings. She didn’t want to remember right now.
Not only had she loved the White City in its own right, the time she had dwelled there stood out in her memory as a golden time, when they had still been carefree and invincible, before the days darkened and the losses began. Though she, Willow, and Tara spent most of their time on the higher levels, the Scoobies had shared a cozy house here on the fourth, where Xander and Anya had worked as well.
She had deliberately not gone down the street they had lived on. Whether the House of the Star of High Hope was still standing or not, she didn’t want to know. She certainly didn’t want to see any of the carving or carpentry Xander had done.
But there was another spot dear to them she could hardly avoid passing. To her surprise she found the bakery they had always thought of as ‘theirs’ was still there - for a wonder, undamaged - and still in business.
The smell wafting through the open doors beneath the sign of the Western Sun was enough to bring the memories unbidden.
---
And a part of me keeps holding on
Just in case it hasn't gone
“Buff, you have got to try this!”
A baked good was waved under her nose, so close that she couldn’t have said what it was, though she could feel that it was still warm, not more than a quarter hour from the oven at most.
Xander grinned as she nearly went cross-eyed trying to focus on the morsel.
“Just taste it,” he snickered.
She didn’t object, since the lone male Scoobie could generally be counted on when it came to sugary goodness. This time was no exception.
The flaky pastry gave way to a lemony filling that was just the right balance of sweet and tart. She glared at him when he tried to retrieve the rest of the treat.
“Where did you find this?” she demanded.
“Not you, too!” Anya groaned.
“You cannot possibly object…” Xander began.
“I don’t object to you bringing home baked goods, provided you also bring home some orders for work that pays,” Anya said briskly. “We aren’t supposed to be living here for free, you know, and the research project doesn’t exactly bring in the cash.”
Buffy tried not to look too guilty. She had paid the rent on the house they had taken for half a year up front. Given what mortals would pay for elven-made goods, the cost of renting a decent house, even in the finest neighborhoods of Gondor’s capital city, was no big deal. They had actually decided on restraint and gone for a more modest residence in what seemed like a middle-class section of the city, populated mainly by merchants and officers in the city guard.
But as the months wore on, they had to at least look like it made sense that they were financially self-sufficient, or their neighbors might wonder how they could afford to live there when the man of the house didn’t appear to be working enough to pay for it.
The healing that Willow and Tara did on the side was generally paid for in kind, not in money. Buffy herself brought in small change by giving lessons a few mornings a week, basic reading and writing, to children whose families either could not afford or did not want to hire a formal tutor.
Their real occupation was a massive effort to discover anything useful about Sauron or other leftovers of Morgoth that might be buried in the archives of the Citadel. Willow, Tara, and Buffy were doing most of the actual searching, bringing home notes that Anya and Xander helped them review in the evenings. Xander, unfortunately, was barred from more active participation by both his lesser proficiency in the older modes of Sindarin and Adunaic used in the earliest chronicles. And Anya didn’t trust him not to get himself into trouble left entirely to his own devices all day.
“Relax, Ahn,” Xander said with a reassuring smile. “I have orders. Several of them. One is for a new counter from the man who makes these - he liked the idea that I could make a hinged countertop for his shop with a seam so smooth no one would notice it unless he needed to open it up to get out from behind the counter in a hurry. And before you ask, I did not accept payment in pastry, tempting as it was.”
“Good,” Anya replied, mollified. “Because the wife of the guard captain next door has been asking odd questions lately. You’re supposed to be an amazing carpenter, but no one around here knows your work and she’s getting suspicious.”
Anya, as an ostensible housewife, knew the women of the neighborhood fairly well by now, from countless conversations conducted over the garden wall, while out shopping or taking deliveries from the butcher or greengrocer, or trading eggs from the hens she was keeping.
“If this job works out,” Xander said confidently, “I suspect half this circle will know about my skills. The Western Sky seems to be the place to go in Bakers’ Street.”
---
It was just like a movie
It was just like a song
My God, this reminds me
Of when we were young
“So you’re Master Axantur’s little sister, then?”
The man behind the recently improved counter had forearms the size of small tree trunks. Buffy tried not to gape. She hadn’t realized normal mortals' arms could get that big. To be honest, she couldn’t see why he needed a counter he could get out from behind in a hurry - a man with arms like that should only need to glare for any troublemakers to decide to go elsewhere.
“That’s me,” she said with a polite smile. “And you must be Master Orchaldor. I think he took the job with you just so he’d know when you were bringing those lemon morsels out of the oven.”
“If that’s what you’re after, you’re in luck, young miss. There’s a fresh batch just cooling - but you could smell that from the street, I’ll wager.”
“I could,” she grinned. “Which is what made me think I’d better stop in and pick up enough for everyone.”
“And who would ‘everyone’ be?” the baker asked, already wrapping several of the coveted treats in paper for her. “Seems to me I’ve not met the whole household yet - a bit curious, as most of your neighbors come to me for their bread.”
Buffy sighed inwardly. Trying to fit in was much harder than they’d expected, but being able to live like regular folk, with no one gawking at her or demanding she behave like she’d stepped out of a song was more than worth it.
“Aye,” she agreed ruefully. “We don’t get out as much as we might. I’m mostly kept busy assisting my sister Tasariel and her friend Gilornel. They’re healers, and trying to rediscover some of the ancient herb lore brought from Numenor.”
“Managed to gain admission to the archives, did they? Lord Ecthelion must think they have a good chance of succeeding if he granted them permission,” Orchaldor mused. “Though it’s easy enough to see where it would be to the good. Too many died in that fever last winter, more than might have if our healers had not lost so much knowledge through the years.”
He set a wrapped packet on the counter.
“Well, young lady, there’s your lemon dainties, and mind you tell your sister should she come across anything about edible herbs in her reading, I’m a man who’s not averse to trying something new in my bakery - or something old, as may be!”
Buffy smiled, a genuine smile this time, as she tried to hand over several coins.
“Leave it, child,” Orchaldor said. “Your law-sister overpaid when she was here this morning - my daughter doesn’t know her sums as well as she should yet. Beg my pardon of Mistress Almiel, and tell her this evens the account.”
“I do know my sums!” an indignant little voice piped up.
The girl couldn’t have been more than eight, barely tall enough to peep over the counter, and Buffy guessed if she’d been minding the shop in the morning, it had been with the aid of a step-stool.
“You’re getting better, Gilien,” her father told her gently, “But you did tot up Mistress Almiel’s order incorrectly, and if we make a habit of shortchanging our customers, they’ll no longer buy from us, but from Master Baranor or Master Glavrion.”
“Perhaps you should come to me on Fridays,” Buffy suggested. “I teach children your age reading, writing, and reckoning.”
The girl’s eyes had brightened at the mention of other children, but her face fell quickly.
“I’m not a boy,” she muttered. “And Da needs me here in the shop.”
Orchaldor seemed to be considering the notion, however.
“Well, I don’t know as I can’t spare you one morning a week,” he said thoughtfully. “And maybe it’s as needful for a girl with no older brothers to learn how to figure and write properly as it would be for a lad.”
Gilien turned hopeful eyes to her father.
“Really?” she asked, breathless with disbelief.
“If she brings a dozen such dainties whenever she comes, would that be enough to pay for her teaching, Miss Noliel?” the baker asked.
“Of course,” Buffy replied. “I’ll look for you the day after tomorrow then, Gilien.”
---
Let me photograph you in this light
In case it is the last time
That we might be exactly like we were
Before we realized
“Anya, run and see if Orchaldor has any stale bread he’ll sell us cheap,” Buffy ordered, not quite desperate.
Thanksgiving wasn’t a tradition of Gondor, but it was a tradition of Sunnydale, and one they had kept every year since coming to Middle Earth. She wasn’t about to let it slip now - especially when living in a city made putting together a proper turkey feast less difficult than in Lothlorien, where they’d celebrated last year.
The turkey itself was no problem, nor potatoes. Corn had yet to catch on in Gondor, but Tara had brought some seeds with her, and Anya had not only coaxed them into flourishing in the small back garden but managed to preserve some until autumn. Dried corn wouldn’t be good for eating on its own, but Buffy had made it work for cornbread. Her amazing big brothers had taken the trouble to send pumpkins all the way from Imladris, so they would be able to do pumpkin pie.
Stuffing, however, Buffy had nearly forgotten about. And she didn’t have a lot of time to throw it together - the bird would need to be stuffed and in the oven within the hour if they were going to eat tonight and not tomorrow.
Anya had only just made it to the door when someone rapped on it from the outside.
“Who on earth can be calling now?” she muttered. “Everyone knows Xander isn’t available to work today!”
They’d explained their odd, Thursday feast as a family tradition, commemorating a long-dead ancestor, to anyone who had asked - and quite a few had, for Xander was much in demand. His natural talents as a carpenter had been honed by two decades of elvish tutelage, leaving him far superior to woodworkers trained by mortals. He was known not only throughout the fourth circle, but even higher in the city, with commissions coming in from the wealthy and the nobility as word - and sight - of his skill spread. Thus his recent announcement that he would not work on a weekday had occasioned quite a bit of surprise.
“With Da’s compliments, Mistress,” Gilien chirped, handing over a sack. “Miss Noliel told us last week of the supper you’re to have, and explained many of the dishes to me. So I set aside some of yesterday’s bread.”
“Kiss that girl!” Buffy yelled from the kitchen.
Gilien had become one of her best students, learning not only math and basic literacy, but moving on to more advanced reading. She had taken Willow and Tara as a model, saying if they could rediscover herb lore, perhaps she might rediscover Numenorian recipes and baking techniques. They had promised they would take her to the archives as a treat when she was old enough that the archivists would not bar her.
“I think letting her watch would be a fairer reward,” Anya retorted. “She’s going to run that bakery some day - show her how to make pumpkin pie!”
---
We were sad of getting old
It made us restless
“But Miss Noliel, you will come back, won’t you?”
Ten years had passed in the blink of an eye. For the first time, Buffy was starting to understand what it meant to be an elf. Time simply didn’t have the same hold on her - but she could see it starting to leave its mark on the Scoobies.
While they could all have happily stayed longer, if she was going to put the next part of her plan in action, they needed to go soon. Mordor’s power was growing with every year. And this was not an adventure for the middle-aged.
Besides, if they waited much longer, it might be too dangerous to do what she was contemplating.
Unfortunately, that meant bidding their many friends in Minas Tirith farewell - after coming up with a suitable story for what they were doing.
The idea that Xander wished to travel to Far Harad to attempt to bring back some of their famous warmwood was widely accepted, though his foolishness in dragging his wife and sisters with him was deplored- for few undertook that journey, and fewer still returned.
“I certainly expect so!” Buffy replied, doing her best to sound reassuring.
In truth, she would certainly come back to Minas Tirith at some point, but depending on how long it took Sauron’s plans to come to a head, it might be long after Gilien had died.
“But the journey may take some years,” Buffy continued. “Who knows, by the time I return, you may be running the Western Sky!”
“I shall make sure to have the lemon dainties ready when you come in,” Gilien said bravely. “They’re everyone’s favorite.”
---
Oh, I'm so mad I'm getting old
It makes me reckless
Anariel’s shoulders sagged. They never had gotten back to Minas Tirith as a group. And there would be no baked goods for Xander, Willow, Tara, and Anya ever again.
Yet, she couldn’t pass by and not stop in.
She braced herself, as for a fight, and entered.
The young man behind the counter was unfamiliar to her, though his eyes and the shape of his arms put her in mind of Orchaldor.
“Well met, my lady,” he greeted her politely, and her heart ached afresh to be greeted as a stranger rather than as the regular she once had been. “How may I help you?”
“I was passing by and smelled fresh lemon dainties,” she began, only to be cut off by a startled noise from the back room.
The woman who pushed the curtain aside had many lines on her face, and hair white as snow, but the eyes were Gilien’s eyes, bright and clear even after all these years.
“Lady Noliel!” she exclaimed. “Back at last!”
The shop boy looked startled.
“I knew it,” Gilien continued. “I just knew in my bones that I needed to make them again today. I would not have expected it to be you walking in after all these years, but here you are.”
“My grandmother hasn’t baked these pastries since I was very young,” the lad explained. “We thought it a strange fancy of hers to insist on it today when most people will want only bread or hearty pies with so much heavy work to be done.”
“I don’t suppose Master Axantur or your sisters have come back, have they?” Gilien asked. “We’ve always feared you would come to misadventure, running off to foreign parts, even if warmwood was so pretty.”
Anariel smiled, though she felt the tears pricking her eyes as she did.
“They would have loved to come,” she said quietly. “I’m afraid they fell in the War.”
Gilien nodded slowly, as if she understood all that was not being said.
“That’s a shame. I had always hoped to have all of you sat round a table once more before I go. Yet somehow it feels right that they should have fallen in defense of the White City, for they loved it so.”
Anariel nodded.
“They did,” she agreed softly.
Gilien passed her a small packet.
“I’ve never handed you only one, and now does not seem the time to start. You’ll find someone to share them with, I’ve no doubt.”
“Aye,” Anariel said quietly. “I will.”
They’d always said the Western Sky’s lemon dainties were fit for a king. She’ll give one to Estel, and maybe she can bear to tell him the story that goes with it.
It was just like a movie
It was just like a song
When we were young