A/N: Right, originally, this chapter was going to be the second part of the last chapter, but because of the traveling delay, I wanted to get something posted, I went ahead and put up the last chapter without this bit. So if the last one seemed to end abruptly, that's why. I will probably edit or update this eventually and just splice this stuff in at the end of chapter three. But in the meantime, here we go.

(Oh, also, before I forget, I got an email from chocolatejet which had a link to a page where you can see a screencap of the girl I was babbling about last go-round. If you go to www . arwen-undomiel . com / sc / rotk / SoF . php (just delete the spaces) and look at the first and second pictures in the second row, that's the girl I was on about. This story pretty much started because I was watching to movie and I wondered what her story was and then got a bit carried away. Thanks chocolatejet!)

Calla sat on the stoop of her house, of the little grey stray cat that haunted her street. It was still very early, but she hadn't been able to sleep very well. She and Shiriel had stayed up late talking, and Calla had recounted, as clearly as she could remember, every word that had passed between Legolas and herself. Now, with a fitful night of sleep behind her, Calla was torturing herself with second-guesses.

She had been too forward. Much too forward. Unthinkably presumptuous. Legolas of Mirkwood was one of the companions of the King and she had had the gall to scold him for his literary tastes. (Still—Mardil's poems, stale? When she thought of that, her shame momentarily evaporated.) What must he have done? Gone back to his friends and told them, maybe laughing, about the insolent little maid who had given him cheek? But no—she was giving herself too much credit. In all probability, she hadn't even made an impression on him. By this morning any memory of her must be utterly gone from his mind as though she had never even crossed his path. Calla buried her face in the soft back of the little cat.

"Oh, cat, it's just not fair," she whispered. "It's not fair that he can turn me upside down and flood my whole world just by being there, while I make no more impression on him then a feather blown against a mountainside." The cat wriggled from her grasp, yawned unsympathetically, and slouched off to find a patch of early morning sun. Calla sighed and hugged her knees, and sat in the doorway, gazing abstractedly at the paving stones.

Shiriel breezed in a little later, and for a moment Calla was afraid she was going to have to go into the (now painful) details of the previous evening, but Shiriel, luckily was bubbling over with other news. She and Cadfael had set a date; they would be married next month, quietly and simply. Now that the shadow of the east had been destroyed and the King had returned and spring was coming, everything seemed perfect for starting their new life together as soon as possible. Of course, her wedding dress would be just ordinary wool, nothing fancy, since she had no intention of going into debt just as she started married life, but maybe she could find a nice weave—

At this point, Calla rapped her knuckles on Shiriel's head, told her not to be a little idiot, and produced a bolt of creamy-white poplin. Shiriel broke down in tears and asked how she could possibly have it finished already, since she and Cadfael had only been engaged for a few weeks. Calla rolled her eyes and told her that everyone else in Minas Tirith had considered the engagement a sure thing for a few years now. And then they had their morning toast and Calla put out a little dish of milk for the stray, and the two of them set to work. Calla, still upset at having made of fool of herself the night before, found her mood lightening as she listened to Shiriel. Shiriel, when she was not keeping up a monologue about how to keep a wedding quiet in order to avoid fussy relatives, sang. She had a fair, sweet voice, not particularly suited to singing epic ballads, but perfect for the old, simple folk songs that she loved.

She was humming a quiet refrain when a knock came at the door. Calla, still bent over her loom, heard Shiriel stand up and open the door, and then a voice, a man's voice, saying,

"Is this Fine Local Weaving and Embroidery?"

"Yes, that's us. I'm Shiriel, and I take care of most of the embroidery part, and Calla's back there at the loom. She does the weaving. Obviously. How can I help you?"

"I've been sent to you with a potential order," the man replied, stepping inside and closing the door.

"I see. Actually, I think we're a bit swamped at the moment, so if your employer is in a hurry… But Calla handles arranging orders, so you should probably talk to her. Calla?" Calla stood up and came over to the door as Shiriel went back to her work table. Calla pulled her expense book from one of the pockets on her heavy belt and addressed the man.

"Well as Shiriel says, we actually have a number of orders in at the moment. What exactly are you looking for and what sort of time-frame are we talking about?"

"Let me explain. You know that the King will be married to Lady Arwen before too much longer."

"Yes," Shiriel broke in, looking up from her work. "That's the reason for most of our work. Ladies who will attend want to have new gowns for the occasion."

"Well, so does the Lady Arwen—understandably," the man said with a smile.

"Wait—what?" Calla wasn't sure what she was hearing. "Sir, I'm sorry, but did you mean what that sounded like you meant?"

"If it sounded like I meant that Lady Arwen's seamstress has asked to see a sample of your work in order to consider you for her supplier for the royal wedding—then yes."

Calla looked at Shiriel. Shiriel was staring at the man, open-mouthed.

"I…We… Calla?" Calla was silent for another moment while she gathered herself. She was not used to thunderbolts stepping politely through her door before mid-morning.

"Um, yes, thank you. Shall—shall I bring the samples myself, or give them to you?"

"I will take them, if you don't mind, and let you know what is decided."

"Yes, well, Shiriel, why don't you get your samplers ready, while I go and cut a few yards." Shiriel still seemed a little dazed. She looked at Calla blankly.

"Now?"

"Yes, my sweet, now will do nicely." Calla went into the back room, took out her scissors and tape and started measuring off half-yards—the blue and gold silk brocade, the deep red organza, the pale purple organdy, and (her pride and joy, and it almost hurt her just to cut it) the cloud of pale, silvery-grey chiffon. She folded them all and put them in a basket, which she handed to Shiriel. She added her own samples, and then the messenger took everything and said something about letting them know (which both girls were still a little too dazed to really catch) and then he was gone. The girls looked at each other.

"Well," said Calla in a sort of a strangled voice, but she didn't get any farther because Shiriel swept her in a violent hug.

"Oh, Calla! I can't—! Is this—? Lady Arwen's bridal clothes!"

"Shiriel, calm down. The job isn't ours yet and it is more than likely that there are much more experienced—not to mention talented—people being considered. Let's not get excited yet."

"Not get excited? It's a bit late for that. As though you weren't practically exploding with excitement, Calla, you're actually shaking. And how in the world did Lady Arwen ever come to hear about our little business, I wonder?"

"I can't imagine…" Calla turned away as she said it, afraid that Shiriel would see the blush creep over her face. Somewhere between the cutting and the folding, it had rushed over her that she had mentioned it to him the night before—that she was a weaver with a little business. Could it be, could it possibly be that he had remembered that and mentioned it? Because if he had, then she hadn't completely slipped his mind. And maybe it meant he didn't think she'd made a complete fool of herself. Surely if he'd gone as far as recommending her, he couldn't hold her in contempt?

Calla struggled to maintain her standard pessimism—realism, as she called it to herself—but she just couldn't help it. A little seed of hope seemed to have lodged itself somewhere around her heart and it was beginning to put out delicate little green shoots. Much as she wanted to tell herself that she was being unreasonable, foolish, conceited, she found her heart kept racing exstatically, unbidden. It was not until hours later, after the day's work was done, and dinner was eaten, and she was back at home in her bed that she gave up the struggle, clutched her pillow fiercely, and lay awake in the darkness, grinning into it for a long time.

O

And a week went by and there was still no word. Shiriel's undiminished optimism about their prospects was beginning to wear Calla out. At least, it wasn't Shiriel's unbridled cheeriness that was getting to her so much as the need she felt to temper it. Calla wanted the work and she wanted it badly, but she didn't admit it. She felt (and laughingly berated herself for her own silliness, but did not overcome it) that if she said it aloud she'd jinx everything. She couldn't go on being downbeat; her own hopes were too high. She couldn't go on listening to Shiriel chattering about her high hopes; her own fears were too great. Calla felt she was going insane with anticipation.

And then there was him. She'd seen him still, at the feasts in the evening, but no lucky chance had thrown them into easy conversation again. She had considered going up and asking him if he had been the one to bring her little business to Lady Arwen's attention— in fact, she considered it every night, and once or twice, when some other lady held a conversation with him she nearly did it—but then what if he hadn't? Calla didn't think she could face the embarrassment if he said 'no'. So instead she stole glances at him all night long. Once she even caught his eye, and he smiled a sort of polite smile of recognition which caused her heart to beat a frantic tattoo on the inside of her chest and more or less deprived her of sleep that night, but that was all that had passed between them.

Calla felt that if she did not do something very energetically with all her might she would be driven to madness. She would have liked to run—sprint—for miles without stopping until her lungs burst and she fell down, but there were bills to pay and orders to fill and food to buy and traders to bargain with… So she worked. Frantically. She wove with frenzied concentration, she scoured stalls and vendors for materials of almost impossibly exacting standards, and she haggled and argued doggedly and made some of the best deals of her career, and was generally so diligent that in spite of the small flood of orders she'd had recently she was well ahead of schedule. The feverish work began to worry Shiriel who, after a week had gone by, dragged her out of the house at around midday to have a light lunch out on a sunny wall, looking down at the busy market below, to see if she couldn't calm her down.

Which was why they missed the messenger. Which was why, when they got back, there was a note nailed lightly to the door. Which was why a few passersby and one stray cat were surprised by the semi-hysterical laughter of two young women simultaneously hugging and jumping up and down and attempting to dance in the street.

O

Calla took a deep breath. She was standing before the door of the finest seamstress in all of Minas Tirith, the woman in charge of producing Lady Arwen's entire wardrobe. The instructions had said for her to come on her own—Shiriel's work wouldn't be needed until later. Calla shook herself, stood up straight, took another deep breath, gave the iron knocker a steely look, grasped it (wondering a little if that hand was really hers), and rapped sharply three times. There were footsteps and the door opened.

The finest seamstress in all of Minas Tirith was a dumpling. Everything about her was round. Her body was round, and her face was round, and her cheeks were round, and even her eyes seemed particularly round.

"Hello, I'm Nadial. You must be Calla. Come in." Calla stepped inside. "I was very pleased with the work you sent along, though I didn't expect you to be so young." The older woman looked Calla over with an appraising eye. "Still, if you can do the work, that's all that matters. I'll need you to work here, rather than out of your home, since I'll have to have everything on hand. We have looms here, and some supplies, though I imagine that you'll need to find more as you go along. All expenses of that sort will be taken care of by the King, so you're to spare no expense. And you'll have to spend most of the day here. If you can get here for dawn or a little after, that would be best, as we have a lot of work ahead of us. You'll be working with one other weaver as well, to make the work go faster. Her name is Chanda, and she'll be starting tomorrow. Now come and get settled."

And Calla did. She had thought she would be nervous, but the moment she picked up the first skein of silk, her worries evaporated. She held it lovingly, almost reverently, unwound a length of it, held it up, ran her fingers over it, and she knew two things. First, that this was far and away the best she'd ever worked with. And second, that she understood cloth, and fiber, and weaving as she understood her own hands and arms. As she went to work, tying threads to the warp beam, she was quite sure that she would be able to produce the most beautiful cloth for a wedding garment in at least a hundred years.

When, seven hours later, Nadial cam to tell her to take a short break, she was still sure of it, but she was also beginning to think that the effort might well kill her. Her arms were ready to drop right off her body and her neck and back were screaming in protest. She was also dreadfully hungry. Nadial brought out bread and butter and some cold chicken and a jug of milk and they made a pleasant, if rather hasty meal. When Calla finished she stood and stretched her back and rolled her neck and turned to go back to her loom, but remembered something and stopped short.

"Nadial, just out of curiosity, who referred me to you?" Nadial looked up at her.

"Lord Faramir, of course. Didn't he say anything to you? No? Well, it's like him, I suppose."

"Yes, I suppose it is," said Calla with a smile. She felt like hitting her head against the wall. She was an idiot, a dolt of the deepest dye. Of course it hadn't been Legolas. What madness had induced her to hope that it might have been? And how could she have been so dim, so colossally wool-brained as to have forgotten that Lord Faramir had been there too, at that conversation, and heard her say she was a weaver? And Nadial was right, it was just like him to do this sort of thing. He was the sort of kind man that bothered about his companions' widows and orphans. (It was kind of him to do, Calla told herself fiercely, gritting her teeth. And she was an ungrateful, unreasonable slug to resent him for not being someone else.) If she had had the wit of Gondor's thickest, dullest child she would have known in a minute that it was Lord Faramir who had put in a good word for her. But she didn't. Had someone dropped her on her head until her brains oozed out her ears and then tried to replace them with wool?

The next four hours were not kind to Calla. Quite aside from her arms and back threatening to spasm the moment she went back to work, she berated herself inwardly the entire time. And whenever she found that her stream of self-abuse was drying up she frantically renewed the attack, and she did not even dare to ask herself why, because she was afraid that if she let her mind look inward, should would have to acknowledge that the little seed she had been fostering in her heart all week had been covered in a sudden frost.

By the time she cleared everything up and left for home, it was nearly eight o'clock. She was going to be late tonight. They'd get bad seats tonight, far down the tables, on the ends of benches. Maybe they wouldn't even be able to sit near each ohter. But Calla was too drained to care. She wasn't really in the mood anyway. She'd have to be up early tomorrow, and she wasn't really hungry, and she just wanted to collapse into bed. And she had to make her way down three more levels of the city before she even got home…

She stopped short when her stomach flopped oddly and turned to ice. From where she stood at the top of a flight of wide stairs she could see him, Legolas, walking slowly on a balcony, a shadowy figure in the twilight, his head bent over something. Perhaps he sensed someone watching him, because he looked up and around and—Calla braced herself, just in case she turned to jelly—straight at her. He smiled and nodded and held something up for her to see, but the light was too dim and she couldn't make it out. She shook her head and shot him a quizzical look. Apparently his eyes were much keener than hers, because he called out,

"Mardil! Volume one," before he waved goodnight and disappeared inside.

Shiriel was completely baffled Calla showed up at her door out of breath as though she had been running, flew into the house like a whirlwind, caught her around the waist, and lifted her into the air in a bear-hug. There were times she would swear her best friend was totally out of her mind.

A/N: Whee! It's been too long! So here's the next installment, moving, I hope, the plot along nicely. As you will probably have guessed by now, this story is fairly people-oriented, by which I mean that the main action is really all about character relationships, not epic adventures like the quests and battles of LotR. That's not to say there will be zero action, but it's just not my main focus. Incidentally, you may be wondering why I rated this story the way I did. Well, it's not going to come up for a while, but there will be at least a little Very Sad Stuff a bit later on. Some of it, depending on the delicate sensibilities of the reader, possibly a little tough to deal with. (No, not rape.) So mainly I rated it this way to be safe.

Also, I have no idea what a wedding in Middle-earth would be like. I'm still trying to figure out how to portray the ceremony, since I'm definitely going to be showing Shiriel's wedding, even if I don't desecribe Aragorn and Arwen's. I also have no idea whether or not ME brides wear white. I pondered this for a while, and then decided, why not? So they do.

Comments? Criticisms? Uncontainable praise? It doesn't really matter, please review!