A/N: The setting for this story is in Minas Tirith, just after the fall of Sauron and the crowning of Aragorn, but before the Hobbits go back to the Shire. Just so you know. I assume loads of parties and things are going on at this time—days of celebration, yadda yadda. Oh, and italics denote thought. Also here is a blanket disclaimer for the entire story: Tolkien's are Tolkien's, mine are mine.

Calla stood in the open doorway to her small house, leaning against the frame. Her best friend, Shiriel, flitted about inside, chatting happily about the events of the day before, the crowning of the king and the revelation of his bride-to-be. A sense of well being flooded through Calla—she loved everything about this day. The early morning sun was pale and gold on the white walls of the city, slanting into her house through the doorway, and the streets were quiet, empty except for a small grey cat washing himself meticulously behind the ears. The basil growing in her windowboxes wafted a spicy perfume through the air, and she picked at a heel of bread left over from yesterday and watched absently as the little brown sparrows bickered over the crumbs. And then, she had a vision dancing behind her eyes, seen yesterday, memorized, preserved, cherished, which both made her heart leap and her stomach drop.

"Calla? Calla?" Calla turned around to see Shiriel smiling knowingly. "You actually haven't heard a thing I've said, have you?" Calla smiled and shrugged an apology, then, as Shiriel turned back to the toast she was making over a low fire, said,

"Just… preoccupied. Pleasantly." Shiriel abandoned her toast and faced her friend again, raising one eyebrow archly.

"Oh? With what? It's a man!"

"It is not a man!" Calla laughed, but she felt a blush creep across her cheeks.

"It is a man!" cried Shiriel with delight. "Which one? Do I know him?"

"Shiriel, for once and for all, I am not preoccupied with a man." Technically, that's completely true.

"It is, I can tell. And if you don't do this the easy way I will still get it out of you. I will badger you to death. All right, let's see. Who could it be? I know you've said in the past that you don't care for soldiers, since they're not usually well-read enough to hold a conversation with you—though you generously make an exception for my Cadfael—so that knocks out about nine tenths of the population. And you also say that scholars are to dried-up and pedantic to engage you for very long, which more or less gets rid of the remaining tenth, which leaves us with the sliver of the population that fits in both camps, or else outside them altogether… Oh! Unless it's one of the Rohirrim! Let's see, can I picture you falling for one of the men of Rohan? Mm, I don't think that's your type, precisely, exciting, sure, but I would say you want something just a little more refined." Suddenly she gasped. "It's not Lord Faramir, is it? It must be! It is! Calla, I am absolutely certain I'm right, and you are in love with Lord Faramir."

"Shiriel, I have never even considered Lord Faramir, and you have burnt the toast."

"Are you certain it's not Lord Faramir?" asked Shiriel when she had pulled the toasting fork from the fire. "It was such a perfect theory."

"I am totally and completely positive it's not Lord Faramir."

"Pity," sighed Shiriel sending little eddies of smoke into the air from the charcoal-that-should-have-been-toast. Then her face lit up. "Ah-HA! But you do admit that it's somebody!"

"I admit no such thing! Now drop it, and let's get down to work. There's another feast tonight, I want to be able to enjoy it without anything looming over me. We got nothing done yesterday, and if we don't catch up today we will fall way behind in our orders."

The two girls ran a small business together out of Calla's house. Calla was really, as she occasionally privately admitted to herself and as Shiriel proudly told anyone who would listen, one of the finest weavers in the whole of the city. The cloth she turned out was exquisite, and she personally supplied some very high-end seamstresses with their materiel. After the dresses and gowns were fitted and sewn and hemmed, they were sent back to the girls to be embroidered. Both of the girls did excellent embroidery, but since Calla spent most of her time weaving, this task fell primarily to Shiriel. All in all, the two friends made a tidy little sum out of everything, and to their great pleasure, had begun to establish themselves a quite respectable little business.

For the rest of the day, they were kept so busy that Shiriel almost completely forgot about her best friend's Mystery Man. By late afternoon, on top of the work they already had in progress, they had five new orders, three for fabric and two for embroidery, which, as this was their personal record for number of orders in one day, caused them to do a little hugging dance after Shiriel had curtsied the fifth customer out the door. Calla, luckily, kept seven or eight bolts of cloth on hand at all times, and had been able to fill two of her orders immediately, which meant she'd be able to help Shiriel with the extra embroidery work.

"It's because of all the festivities," said Calla, as, later in the evening, they made their way towards the sound of singing and the smell of spit-roasted mutton. "What lady who can afford it wouldn't want a new gown for the occasion? I expect that things will drop off again soon, but if we do well during this rush, we might really be able to make a name for ourselves, maybe one day get some business with the seamstress of someone really prestigious."

The evening passed happily away in good food, good wine, good dancing, and good company. Cadfael, a guard of the city who had been one of the men to brave the battle at the gates of Mordor, spent the evening with them, dancing mainly with Shiriel and once or twice with Calla. He had asked Shiriel to marry him the same hour that he had returned, haggard but triumphant, from that battle and since then had treated Calla like a sister. Calla had a high opinion of him, and was overjoyed for her friend who, when she had broken the news that they were, at last, engaged, had been so happy that she had scarcely been able to stammer out her meaning.

It was not until the girls walked home arm in arm that Shiriel again picked up her theme from that morning and began to pester Calla about her 'pleasant preoccupation'. Call, giving nothing away, laughingly parried every probing question that Shiriel could think of. When they reached Shiriel's door, Calla kissed her on the cheek and said,

"Go to bed, you nattering goose. I swear to you, in all truth, that no mortal Man in all the world has invaded my thoughts, much less my heart."

It was nearly dawn when Shiriel sat straight up in bed and announced breathlessly to the darkened room,

"By Elbereth, it's an Elf!"

A/N: All right. This, as the lable says, is my first stab at a Legomance, so of course, there's no mystery to you my many devoted (hey, let me decieve myself) readers. But there is for Shiriel. This isn't really going to fall into the category of 'Angst' or of 'Fluff' since they're'll be some very happy bits and some very sad bits, and maybe even some very adventurey (that's... not a word, is it?) bits. So, erm. I hope you like. If you've read, a review would just make my day. Next up, a longer chapter. I just want to see how this one was is received.