Heartstrings
I wonder what my people would think of my....collection. Certainly it might be called grotesque...but I will never see them again, and what little that remains....is precious.
The most precious, of course, are the lyre strings...those, given freely in love by she who bore me, are beyond price. And though the instrument itself has been injured and replaced many a time, the strings remain...her locks woven into love for me. Some few I have had to repair with the fine strands Maedhros gave me for that purpose - but those sing the sweeter.
Ai.
The others are far more....grotesque. The Healers cutting away Father's hair from his matted scalp, trying desperately to heal him when, truly, he continued to live only by his own bloody-mindedness....I remember that, and remember twining a piece again and again in my hands, trying to face the reality of his death, and the grim fact of Maedhros' capture. By right I was King of the Noldor, though even then most would not follow me.
It was a sobering thought.
The years go by faster and faster...my three brethren dead in the cavernous halls...another braid. Out of Amros' long locks...Well. I will not speak of that.
It is only of Amrod that nothing remains for me, except my mother's last gift in the high white tower. Sometimes I wonder if she meant it for me.
I close my eyes, remembering -fire-. My sure fingers thread the small needle with what little of Maedhros' tresses remain - and I attack the hauberk and the gleaming white threads already deftly sewn into place, binding it to the vision of my Art. And I laugh, as I begin to sing - of each of the proud sons of Finwe, and their sons, and the fates of each...a bitter jest, and I pour that too into the Art.
Soon, I am finished, irrevokably invoking my history and rights...but I am not done. I flip the coin in my hand and smile bitterly. Minted in high Hithlum for trade with the Dwarves ere Men ever came over the mountains, it is beyond priceless. But I have many such heirlooms from throughout my travels - and this one will serve a better purpose.
I dip the needle down and pass the eye effortlessly through the gold coin...for I am singing of the Nirnaeth, and the swift fall of all the glory it once knew...and a single captured shimmering strand follows after...for this is a use fitting of its dignity. And I bind this too into my working, as I broider...and as dawn approaches from the east, the winged sun shines as I hold the surcoat to the dim half-light.
Aure enteluva, I say solemnly, in consecration. Perhaps I even believe it, this time.
And when I leave, it is wearing the arms of Finwe King...emblazoned beneath seven stars.
The most precious, of course, are the lyre strings...those, given freely in love by she who bore me, are beyond price. And though the instrument itself has been injured and replaced many a time, the strings remain...her locks woven into love for me. Some few I have had to repair with the fine strands Maedhros gave me for that purpose - but those sing the sweeter.
Ai.
The others are far more....grotesque. The Healers cutting away Father's hair from his matted scalp, trying desperately to heal him when, truly, he continued to live only by his own bloody-mindedness....I remember that, and remember twining a piece again and again in my hands, trying to face the reality of his death, and the grim fact of Maedhros' capture. By right I was King of the Noldor, though even then most would not follow me.
It was a sobering thought.
The years go by faster and faster...my three brethren dead in the cavernous halls...another braid. Out of Amros' long locks...Well. I will not speak of that.
It is only of Amrod that nothing remains for me, except my mother's last gift in the high white tower. Sometimes I wonder if she meant it for me.
I close my eyes, remembering -fire-. My sure fingers thread the small needle with what little of Maedhros' tresses remain - and I attack the hauberk and the gleaming white threads already deftly sewn into place, binding it to the vision of my Art. And I laugh, as I begin to sing - of each of the proud sons of Finwe, and their sons, and the fates of each...a bitter jest, and I pour that too into the Art.
Soon, I am finished, irrevokably invoking my history and rights...but I am not done. I flip the coin in my hand and smile bitterly. Minted in high Hithlum for trade with the Dwarves ere Men ever came over the mountains, it is beyond priceless. But I have many such heirlooms from throughout my travels - and this one will serve a better purpose.
I dip the needle down and pass the eye effortlessly through the gold coin...for I am singing of the Nirnaeth, and the swift fall of all the glory it once knew...and a single captured shimmering strand follows after...for this is a use fitting of its dignity. And I bind this too into my working, as I broider...and as dawn approaches from the east, the winged sun shines as I hold the surcoat to the dim half-light.
Aure enteluva, I say solemnly, in consecration. Perhaps I even believe it, this time.
And when I leave, it is wearing the arms of Finwe King...emblazoned beneath seven stars.