“I am sure King Thranduil holds magnificent Feasts,” said Filignil. Never had she attended one, but during her travels in the lands of the Wood-elves she had heard of them. “They are not quite the same as our feasts of old, and even celebrate different times of the year, but they can be magnificent nonetheless.”
“The King’s feasts are unsurpassingly excellent; merriment and feasting is my people’s way.”
“You know that I am instructed to assist you in making this as near a Mirkwood celebration as we can, given our - limitations.”
“Indeed,” Parnard smiled. “Then we shall put leaves on the tables, and wear our best finery, but what matters most is merriment and the freely-flowing wine.”
Filignil looked amused. “You do realise that, apart from yourself and Lady Aearlinn, if she manages to get here, the celebrants will be dour Noldor? Perhaps we should ask Estarfin to plan one night’s celebration? Some marching in time, some burning of the tables?”
Parnard glanced sharply at Filignil, but she merely smiled back at him, quite unconcerned. “That is not how we feast in the Greenwood,” he said. His reply, brusque as it was, did not deter Filignil from asking if he would dance with her at the feast.
“We still have no music.”
“None of us are musicians, though Lord Estarfin may sing for us again?” she suggested.
“He might.” Parnard shrugged, seemingly preoccupied with other matters.
Another line of converse was perhaps needed, thought Filignil. “Come to the house. We know what we plan outside; come and look at what has been delivered.” She nodded towards the double doors to the hall, and swept Parnard a curtsy. “You have my wish that your journey home brings all that you desire, my friend. I shall miss you, if you choose to remain there. My hope is that you and your lady decide to return.”
At these words Parnard bowed deeply before her. “I shall return with her, if fortune favours us.”
“I shall pray that it does.”
“It is in the Captain's hands.”
The Nolde smiled. “With the company at your side, I cannot see aught but success. I would offer to come too, to persuade him, but I doubt I can do better than those two.”
“They will persuade him,” said Parnard, stopping to grin at the cook. “Just think! It is our last feast before we depart, and yet we shall have another when we return! Ha ha!”
“I hope so, though it will likely be almost spring by then,” she said, wondering how much of the trip she would be trailing them. “Now to the kitchen. I need to think of cakes and pastries.”
“Do you have a large main cake?” Filignil asked as they walked into the hall, thinking back to some past celebrations with cakes as tall as the room.
“We feast upon a great honey and apple cake!”
“Now you tell me,” she swept through the kitchen to the main table, her burgundy dress almost billowing out behind her. “It should be easy enough to prepare though?”
“The cake layers are thin but many, and are made with ground cooked apples and flour. Then we heat honey until it froths up and mix in egg white that has been beaten to a foam with a split rush, and to this mixture we add butter and spices.”
“I see. I may have to send out for rushes,” Filignil said as she checked her cupboard for honey.
“Some can be found down by the river.”
“Oh - yes, that is no bother. You know what arrived today, just after the wine?” The Nolde turned to her companion.
“Then we take the icing up,” Parnard said, not hearing her in his enthusiasm, “as we stack the cakes, wafer-thin, with honey and butter icing between, about this high.” The wood-elf motioned from the floor to his shoulder.
“That cake sounds delicious. We must make one.” Filignil had halted in telling her news to listen closely to the Greenwood cake making instructions, and waited to see if there was any more to the recipe before she tried again. “Do you know what arrived today? A large wooden box containing several bottles of perfumed oils. You remember the orange oil?”
“I remember it. Have you tried the wines yet? We should sample their quality.”
Filignil shook her head. “I must keep a clear head tonight, there is so much to do. Tomorrow perhaps. We have only a few apple trees and my stock is not enough for a cake like that.”
“We can get apples from those halflings: one of them told me that we could have anything we wanted,” said Parnard, casting an approving eye at the cases of wine piled high around the walls of the kitchen stockroom. “We will not take that many; one good turn deserves another,” he quickly added. It was not in the nature of the Woodland Elves to take anything without offering something in return.
“Our folk often plant apple trees where we live. As you doubtlessly know, these used to be our lands,” Filignil mused, walking over to take a small blue box from atop of a pile and place it on the table.
“I said that to the halfling. I told him that these used to be our old hunting grounds and he did not so much as blink. Do you know that he even thanked me for allowing his folk to stay on our land?” he said with a laugh. The box intrigued him. It was painted a deep blue, unlike the larger, plain boxes and crates stacked high around them, and was gilt all over with floral illustrations.
Filignil nodded and replied, “Better halflings there by far than Men or Dwarves.”
Parnard busied himself with opening several crates and removing bottles of wine, and had no more thought for Halflings, Men, or Dwarves. He put the bottles on the table in front of him, took up two glasses from the cupboard, and put one in front of Filignil.
“None for me. I shall be trying out the quality tomorrow, have no fear. I am going to write to my sister in Imladris soon. Shall I send her your greetings?” Moving to take up a sharp knife to cut through the waxed string still holding the box lid tight, Filignil looked to Parnard for a reaction. She knew well that he and her sister had not got along.
“Oh? Tell her I am looking after her.” Parnard smiled.
Filignil arched a brow and looked confused.
“She makes a very good currant cake,” Parnard sniffed at his glass of Limael’s red, then sipped at the wine, rolling it around on his tongue as he rocked back and forth on his heels considering the flavor.
“Not as good as mine though?”
“Not bad, not bad…I mean the wine, beg pardon Filignil, not your cake. Ah, lady, there is no comparison to your cakes and tarts,” Parnard said with a broad grin.
“Of course there is none, friend.” Filignil put down her knife and opened the box's lid. She made a grunt of satisfaction. None seemed broken.
“What is it?” Parnard crowded close to look.
“Delicacies from Harlond. Some of the best sweet makers dwell there. Some are ground almond paste with a sugared icing. Some are fruit with icing and some fruit mixed with nuts.” She smiled and pointed at a larger red confection. “Cherries preserved in red wine.”
Parnard gazed upon these delicacies in a sort of rapture, his pupils growing larger. “Are these for the feast,” he breathed out, eating knife suddenly appearing in his hand.
Lifting the top tray clear of the box, Filignil looked at a second unbroken layer. “For now, I say. Even better than these, somewhere there is a box from trade with Gondor. Minas Tirith has a dark brown paste that tastes rich and creamy. A plant from Numenor I believe? But they keep its secret close. I have never seen it in any of our markets.” Filignil took up her own eating knife, and speared a candied cherry. Parnard popped a sweet into his mouth and chewed it, rolling up his eyes in ecstasy.
“I know these are not Greenwood food, but I also thought they would be a treat that all will enjoy at the Feast. I ordered six boxes. If you like them, why don’t you take that one?” Popping one of the sweets into her mouth, Filignil smiled with satisfaction. “Blackcurrant, cream and honey, mmm! The oils were also delivered; the orange oil I have left in the Lady’s room. I think that is a gift for Lord Estarfin. She told me to order some the day they returned from visiting his old dwelling.”
“Orange oil? What is that for,” Parnard said, now munching on almond and raspberry paste and pouring out more wine.
“You put it in a bath, or rub just a little through your hair. Just a small amount. It should last at least a year. I ordered several oils at her request.”
“Ah! A rare pleasure, especially when bathing with another,” Parnard said, grinning to himself.
“I do not think that is quite what she has in mind.” Filignil arched a thin eyebrow. “That would be unseemly. I have left the orange oil in her room. She can keep it or give it to him as she wishes.”
“How marvelous! A bathtub full of orange oil!”
Filignil looked at him for a moment. ”You dilute a few drops in the bathwater or else you would be sliding around the tub, and everything else, for days.”
Parnard laughed. “One could slide over the tables to polish them while providing a pleasing odor for the nostrils,” he said, and unabashedly helped himself to more wine and confections.
Filignil moved over to the piles of crates and boxes, and selected one that looked like a small wine case. She carried it to the table and pried it open. “Here are the others. I know not what she has in mind for whom, but if there is something you prefer I can drop her a hint? She wants to please everyone, so we shall all get a bottle.” Packing straw was carefully removed and she pulled out several colored glass vials.
“Let me see…the yellow bottle is the oakmoss and thyme, red is for oak and red berry, a more floral one…ah yes, that purple one is wild rose and lavender, and in this bottle, violet leaf and iris.”
“Iris?” He took up the small green phial and smiled, his eyes softening. “Deep in the Greenwood beside a pool of still water did a patch of iris grow, small and thin-stemmed and black as ink, but with a fragrance sweeter than no other flower. One day I left my mother’s knee to go find them. How she worried I was eaten by spiders! But soon I returned with a black iris clutched in my tiny fist to give to her.”
“A true son of the Greenwood.”
Parnard bowed his head. “She is there still.”
“Perhaps one day I shall meet her,” Filignil said, speaking softly, knowing that his heart had been stirred by a tender memory. But time was growing short and they had dawdled overlong. “Come now; let us put this aside. We still have much preparation ahead, and I am thinking of a late meal for us, if your stomach will allow it.”
