A Stitch in Time by grey_gazania

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A Stitch in Time

The quilt had been added to the twins' bed during their first winter at Amon Ereb, after two nights spent curled together for warmth. Clearly their captors — caretakers? Already the lines were blurring — had noticed, and had taken steps to remedy it. It smelled of cedar and gave their room some much-needed color. Large enough to cover the bed of a full-grown man, it was more than sufficient for two children, and could even be folded in half for extra warmth on particularly cold nights.

 

And it was utterly unlike the other quilts they had seen, with their neat, regular blocks and clear patterns. This one was a rich riot of reds, golds, and browns, with different fabrics cut into asymmetrical shapes and quilted in winding, stylized, visible stitches. It quickly became a comfort, something that could hold Elrond's attention when he was ill or injured and confined to his bed. There seemed to constantly be something new to discover — here a sliver of fabric soft as lamb's wool, there a quill picked out in neat, tiny stitches. Tiny brass bells hung at three of the corners; the forth was adorned with a slender gold ring sewn on in blunt stitches of crimson thread.

 

And yet, somehow it never occurred to either of them to ask about it, not until they were half-grown and fast becoming too large to comfortably share a bed. It was Elros who gathered up the nerve to speak, after he had helped Maglor move a second bed into the room and begun to take his share of the blankets.

 

"You can keep using the quilt," he said to Elrond. "I know how much you like it." And then, turning to Maglor, he said, "Who made it, anyway?"

 

"Our sister-in-law," Maglor said after a moment of silence. "Caranthir's wife." And then, before either of them could ask, he added, "She stayed in Aman."

 

Caranthir, Elrond knew, was the brother who had built the keep, and one of the three who had fallen in the attack on Doriath. He wondered, sometimes, about those brothers. What had they been like? Did they have Maglor's gentleness or Maedhros' wry humor? Were they as tired-eyed and worn as Fëanor's remaining sons, at the end? But the topic was clearly closed, as Maglor folded down the last blanket, clapped Elros on the shoulder, and left the room.

 

And so the quilt stayed on Elrond's bed, always there to greet him when they returned to Amon Ereb each winter. And when Maedhros and Maglor informed them that they were being taken to King Gil-galad, after their protests had broken like thrown dishes against the wall of Maedhros' will, when they had given in and begun packing, Maglor had folded the quilt up and placed it in Elrond's bag, just on top of Maedhros' herbal. The corner with the ring rested face-up, and he traced it with his long, strong fingers.

 

"It's his wedding ring, isn't it," Elrond said. It wasn't really a question; he'd guessed as much years ago.

 

Maglor nodded. "It feels like I'm sending a piece of my brother away with you," he said with unusual candor.

 

"You are," Elrond said. "And I won't forget them. Or you."

 

The Sons of Fëanor were not good men, but neither were they wholly evil. Someone needed to remember that. Maedhros was grim and deadly and cooly logical, but he was also a patient teacher, prone to unexpected dry wit but never mocking his students. Maglor was equally deadly, but he had soothed their nightmares with his gentle voice and taught them all the lore he knew.

 

And the others…he'd learned about them, slowly. Celegorm, who had spent half his childhood sneaking his dog into his bedroom or running wild in the woods. Caranthir, who had liked numbers better than most people but who had spent nearly every waking hour at Maedhros' bedside while he recovered from his torment on Thangorodrim. Curufin, whose own son had denounced him but who had spent a full day designing Himring with one hand tied behind his back, making certain that his brother could live there without hinderance. Amras, who had dragged his twin into trouble at every opportunity. And Amrod, who felt such kinship with the Green-Elves of Ossiriand that he had nearly abandoned Quenya entirely for Sindarin.

 

Someone needed to remember those things, after Maedhros and Maglor were gone.

 

"You know that we knew Gil-galad's father well," Maglor said, dragging Elrond's attention back to the present. "If they're anything alike… You'll be in good hands."

 

Elrond didn't answer, but wrapped his arms around Maglor in a last, unspoken goodbye.

 

***********

 

The quilt stayed with him — first on Balar, then in Lindon, then in Rivendell. It kept his children warm at night and, later, covered the bed of a small boy named Estel. And when Sauron was finally defeated — the One Ring destroyed at the tiny hands of two brave Hobbits — and it was time for the Ringbearers to depart Middle-earth forever, Elrond took the quilt, worn and threadbare though it was, with him.

 

In Valinor he found his wife again, and though she still tired easily, their reunion was one of joy. And as he sat by Celebrían's side in her room in the palace, his attention was drawn to the quilt folded at the foot of her bed. It was a collage of colors, white and ivory and pale golds, with fabric in various shapes and textures. Neat, near-invisible stitches held prayers for light and healing, and a tiny golden bell adorned each corner.

 

She caught the direction of his gaze and smiled. "Isn't it lovely? One of my aunt Amarië's friends made it. She's an archivist, but she also quilts."

 

"That was very kind of her," Elrond said.

 

"She is kind. A little odd, but kind. She and Amarië are very close, and they both went out of their way to welcome me and help me when I first came here." She leaned her head against his shoulder, her cheek warming his skin, and said, "I've always thought the style looked familiar, though."

 

The comment sounded innocent on the surface, but Elrond knew her, knew that tone of voice, knew the sharp gaze that usually accompanied it.

 

"You know," he said slowly. "I think you're right."

 

***********

 

It took some time to persuade Amarië to arrange a meeting between Elrond and the quilter, despite Celebrían's friendship. "Parmë's a little shy," Amarië said, hedging, a hint of wariness in her face, and he found himself wondering if this wasn't the first time a stranger from Endor had asked after Parmacundë.

 

"Maedhros and Maglor raised me," Elrond said, his voice soft. "You know that. I'm not here to attack her for what her husband did, but I have something of hers that I'd like to return."

 

Amarië regarded him in silence for a long moment, her bright eyes sharp and canny. "Very well," she said. "She lives on Elm Road, near the archives. It's the house with the chrysanthemums."

 

He went the next evening, alone, the quilt tucked into a bag at his side. The house was hard to miss — large, ornamental chrysanthemums of all colors lined the front walls and the walkway. His quiet knock on the door was answered by a small, bird-boned woman with striking dark eyes. She bit her lip, her brow furrowing a little, and asked, "Can I help you…?"

 

"Elrond," he said, giving her a short bow. "You know my wife, Celebrían."

 

"Oh!" The lines smoothed from her brow at the mention of Celebrían's name, replaced by little crinkles around her eyes as she smiled. "It's nice to meet you, finally. I'd heard that you'd arrived recently. Would you like to come in?"

 

"Please." He stood there, waiting for her step out of the doorway so that he could enter, but it took a few moments for her to realize the problem. When she did, she blushed pink and moved out of his way with a small hop. "I'm sorry."

 

"It's quite all right," he said, removing his shoes before walking into the sitting room. It was warm and airy, with cream-colored walls and soft red flowers in vases scattered on various tables. Autumnal colors, he thought, much like the quilt itself.

 

"Would you like tea?" she asked, and Elrond shook his head.

 

"Actually," he said, "I… Well, I have something for you. I've had it for a long time, and I think it's time it was returned to its creator." He opened the bag and drew out the folded quilt, watching as Parmacundë paled and raised a hand to cover her mouth.

 

"By the Valar," she said, her voice barely audible. "How— Where—?"

 

"My foster-fathers," he said as she took it, her hands tentative as they clasped the fabric, almost as though she wasn't certain it was real.

 

When she saw Caranthir's ring sewn to the corner she began to cry. "I'm sorry," she hiccuped, setting the quilt down and trying to discreetly wipe her eyes on her sleeve. "You come here to give me this and I start crying on you, what you must be thinking—"

 

"I think," Elrond said softly, "that you put a lot of love into that quilt. And I want you to know that it comforted two children who badly needed it. And that I passed that comfort on to my own children and foster-son." He took her hands in his, gently squeezing her fingers, one of which still bore a matching wedding band. "I want to tell you that your love mattered. It made a difference in my life, twice now, because you also helped bring Celebrían back. And I will forever be grateful to you for that."

 

She let go of his hands to wipe at her eyes again. "Thank you," she said, a little choked. "I— Thank you."

 

"Thank you," he said. "From the bottom of my heart."

 

He had done what needed to be done. The quilt was home.

Chapter End Notes

Curufin designing Himring with one hand tied up is from A Copper Band by Himring. Parmë's quilting style is a real thing known as crazy quilting.

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