Chapter Text
Sweet mother, I can’t take shuttle in hand.
There is a boy, and lust
Has crushed my spirit – just
As gentle Aphrodite planned.
Sappho (trans. Aaron Poochigan)
****
Míriel Therindë knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was in love when her grandmother peered over her shoulder with a scowl and instructed her to undo the weaving she had spent all morning on.
“You’ve alternated hues too early here, it doesn’t match the pattern. Tsk. Careless, Míriel. And look, these strands are too loose. Redo it—and this time, take more care.”
Míriel looked at her work and swallowed a sigh. Of all the elves in Cuiviénen, only her grandmother had eyes sharp enough to pick out such mistakes. And yet, Míriel had inherited those same eyes, and she could see that she was right. Dutifully, she began to pick the fabric apart.
It was one of the first warm days of the year, and Míriel had convinced the rest of the household to bring their spinning and weaving into the courtyard, where they could enjoy the gifts of Yavanna after the long winter. Above, the sky was the purest unblemished blue, framed by the budding branches of the trees that lined the courtyard. If Míriel tuned out the chatter around her, she could hear the rushing of river water, strengthened by the melting ice, the playful music of young birds, the wind in the grass. And if she shut her eyes and strained her senses, perhaps she could even catch the sound of—
“Míriel.” She opened her eyes and turned to face her grandmother. “Focus, onwë. I’m sure I don’t know why your attention is so scattered today.”
“My apologies, grandmother.” She lowered her gaze. Across the courtyard, her cousin turned to look at her, and Míriel willed herself not to glance up. She could imagine the face she was making: the kind of mischievous, knowing expression that said Míriel has a secret, and I know what it is….
And the second Míriel acknowledged it, her cousin would no doubt find a way to steer the conversation straight in that direction and expose her to everyone. Instead, she gathered her fragmented attention and applied it to her weaving: casting the thread of the weft, shifting the shed rods, beating the threads into place. Cast, shift, cast, beat. Cast, shift, cast, beat.
As long as she could remember, Míriel had sat at the foot of her elders and learned through watching and listening. She had watched as flax and wool were spun into yarn, mimicked the movements that held the distaff steady, followed her mother and grandmother as they did their duties, spinning all the while. Then she had watched them as they weaved and listened as they spoke. What did they speak of? Everything. Great matters, such as the will of the Maiar, the turning of the tides, the shape the world was taking. Small matters, such as sickness among the livestock, the change in weather, who was to have a child in the coming year. And talk of things that had never been and never would be: stories, poems, songs—the types of fictions that the elven folk thrived upon.
The tapestry that she wove now would one day tell its own story, although this would be a history, rather than a tale of the imagination. It was to be a monumental piece depicting the feats of the great elven families, one day to be hung in the great hall. Míriel was honored to have been identified as the most skilled weaver and embroiderer of her people and to have the project placed in her hands. But for now, the great work was simply a half-woven canvas of fabric in alternating hues of cream and pearl and very pale blue. It wasn’t to be her work alone, of course. Her grandmother, who had taught her the craft, oversaw its progress. And once it came time to embroider the fabric, Míriel would select a number of companions to join in the work. In fact, she had already begun to think about who she would choose. Her aunts. Her cousin, of course. Several of the younger girls who had shown a particular aptitude for embroidery, although there was more than a little interpersonal drama to take into consideration. She would have to sit with this group for many hours over the course of many months, perhaps even years, and it was imperative that there was no conflict to mar the—
A peal of laughter echoed along the hallway and through the cloisters, dissipating in the open air of the courtyard. And as she had done all day, Míriel paused in her work, her eyes flickering up momentarily, hoping this time—this time— for more than a morsel.
“Míriel, your father has been shut up with Finwë for hours,” her cousin announced coyly. “I wonder what they could be speaking of?”
Míriel rewarded her with a deadpan stare and was just composing a response when her grandmother once again leaned over her shoulder with a sharp click of the tongue. “You’ve moved on to the next strand without beating the weft! Vairë help me, this tapestry will turn out a shame to look upon!”
It was then that Míriel understood that her grandmother knew exactly why her attention was elsewhere today. And with a sudden bristling awareness, she realized that everyone else in the courtyard knew it as well, even without her cousin’s pointed remarks.
Finwë. Finwë. Míriel moved her lips silently, tasting the syllables. For years, the name—and the youth attached to it—had meant little to her; not bland, per se, but merely commonplace. Like the bread served alongside their meals, Finwë was such a staple of the court that she had barely noticed him. But it was as if one day she had sat down to supper and discovered that this bread—warm, rich with yeast, fresh from the ovens—was the most precious and delightful feast one could have.
She had noticed this new awareness within herself at the beginning of last winter. She had barely been able to sit down and disentangle it before Finwë, along with most of the rest of the household, left for the year-end hunt. Míriel was fully prepared for her ardor to fade in his absence. But to her surprise, separation seemed to mature her tender feelings. And on his return, Finwë sought her out, and Míriel Therindë came to understand that she had been much in his thoughts as well.
Day after day, she had watched surreptitiously as he woo’d her father, courting his good graces. They tried not to be seen together too often, although they seemed inexorably drawn into one another’s orbit. There were locking eyes across the great hall and meticulously timed walks in the gardens so that they might happen to run across one another. And once—once!—he had taken her arm to steady her in a crowded room. Her cousin had noticed that, and Míriel had been forced to tell the girl everything—although in truth, there had been no need to press her too hard; she was so thrilled to finally speak the truth of her feelings aloud to someone else that the words came racing off the tip of her tongue, like the river with its melting ice floes.
Now—now—the pivotal moment had arrived. Her father and her lover were closeted together in the council chambers, and Míriel felt a giddiness, a brightness in her chest that manifested in wandering eyes and fumbling fingers. She knew she was on a precipice, balanced on a slender edge. The metaphor made it sound precarious, but she knew that the fall, when it came, would be the sweetest thing she had ever experienced.
One of the women, a great aunt, began a tale. It was one Míriel knew well, but the repetition felt comfortable and familiar. Like the motion of weaving. Cast, shift, cast, beat. One day, she imagined herself repeating this same story to her own daughters. She imagined herself a grandmother many times over, passing down the rhythm of her craft, helping her descendants to understand the ways of the warp and the weft.
“Very good,” she heard her own grandmother say softly. Míriel looked up to give her an appreciative glance, but the old elf’s attention had already shifted—towards the shadowed cloisters.
“Míriel.” She looked up to find her father standing in the archway.
“Good morning, Atar,” she said, trying not to stare past him at the figure hovering behind his shoulder.
“Your presence is required, my daughter.”
“Of course.” She paused in her work and realized that her hands were trembling. She was caught in the crossfire of many different gazes: her father, her aunts, her cousin, looking oh-so smug. Their eyes caught her and held her taut. This was it. This was the moment. Míriel prepared herself to step from the precipice.
But her grandmother held up a hand.
“She’ll be with you presently. Her aunt has just begun a story. Let her stay until the end of the tale.”
Míriel’s heart quickened. “It’s alright, Grandmother. It’s one I’ve heard before.”
But her grandmother persisted. “Sit and finish your work. Plenty of time for other business later.”
“You may stay if you desire,” her father demurred, bowing slightly to her grandmother.
Míriel hesitated—and for the first time, her eyes strayed to Finwë, who stood so stiffly, but whose gaze was warm and blue as that perfect spring sky. She glanced at her weaving. The pattern of the fabric was coming into focus. The story she was telling was taking its shape.
“It’s alright, Atar,” she said, although she looked not at him but at the young elf by his side. “I’m ready now.” And so saying, she stepped away from her loom and toward her future.