Weaving by Zdenka

Protection

Galadriel learns from Melian in Doriath.

'What wilt thou weave? What wilt thou spin?'
'A marvelous thread, and wind therein
a potent magic, and a spell
I will weave within my web that hell
nor all the powers of Dread shall break.'

(The Lay of Leithian, Canto V)

“Arda itself was created through music,” said Melian in her melodious voice. “Even now, Song can subtly alter the fabric of Arda, or even change Fate, if the singer has power, will, and intention.”

Even self-bound in flesh as Melian was, Galadriel could never mistake her for one of the Eldar. Her eyes that shone more brightly even than in those born beneath the light of the Two Trees, her voice that carried an undercurrent of lightning and thunder, and the power Galadriel could sense wrapped around her like a cloak: Melian’s body had not been born with her, and if she wished, she could cast it off and once again be pure spirit. It intrigued Galadriel, and made her curious. And she wanted fiercely to learn whatever Melian could teach. She watched intently as Melian lifted her shuttle.

Melian sang as she wove, weaving melody with her voice as she passed the threads under and over each other, so that both song and threads were part of the pattern. Galadriel could see the light welling through the weave of the cloth, colored beams crisscrossing each other like threads. Melian sang of the Sun and the Moon, the deepest roots of the trees and the height of the mountains, her love for this land of Doriath that loved her in return, her love for her family and her people, and, always present, the Light that was at the beginning of Arda. She sang, and she called each of those things into her song. And the grey cloth she wove, that would become a cloak, took on the colors of her song. Galadriel could see how it became imbued with spells of protection, sinking into it like dye.

Lúthien shifted in her place beside Galadriel. She sat perched on her chair almost like one of her mother’s birds, her legs tucked beneath her. She smiled at Galadriel, her eyes alight with a hint of mischief, then swiveled back to face her mother. “Tell us more about what you said yesterday—that we can use parts of the physical body as well as the spirit?”

Melian nodded. “This is something that you, both of you, can do, but I cannot. I came into being outside the fabric the World, and not part of it; each of you was born inside it, from flesh and blood. If you take something that is part of you—a drop of blood, a strand of hair—it can strengthen the working. The marchwardens use one form of this, when they twist bow-strings from their own hair.”

Galadriel gathered a lock of her own hair and looked at it thoughtfully. Fëanor had wanted to use her hair in his work, long ago—not caring who she was or what she wished, but only seeking to use her as raw material, like ore from a mine. But it was another thing if she could learn to use it herself. And she would never hold back her abilities from those she loved. Melian’s power defended Doriath, but no such power protected the pine-covered hills of Dorthonion or the watchtower of Minas Tirith, where her brothers dwelt; and if Morgoth burst forth from Angband, even Nargothrond’s secrecy might not be enough.

Melian held out a shuttle full of thread, and Galadriel took it. It felt like the passing on of a sword, or a shield. She took in a deep breath, and sang as she began to weave. The threads began to shine softly with power under her hands, and Galadriel felt a surge of delight. To discover and learn new things unthought-of before, to test her abilities to the limit—was this not the reason why she had crossed the Sea? They were far below the earth, the stone vault of the cave above them carved with the shapes of branches and birds and woodland creatures, but to Galadriel, it felt as if she stood beneath a wide and limitless sky.