Weaving by Zdenka

Lothlórien

Galadriel weaves the cloaks of Lothlórien, as young Arwen looks on.

"Leaf and branch, water and stone: they have the hue and beauty of all these things under the twilight of Lórien that we love; for we put the thought of all that we love into all that we make. ... You are indeed high in the favor of the Lady! For she herself and her maidens wove this stuff . . ." (The Fellowship of the Ring, "Farewell to Lórien")

The sunlight filtered down through the golden leaves and lit the wooden floor of the talan that was Galadriel’s weaving-room. Her attendant maidens sat about her, busied with their own work, and her young granddaughter sat on a pile of cushions at her feet.

Galadriel sang as she wove, slipping power in among the threads. As the cloth grew under her hands, it took on many hues and many changes of light: the golden mallorn leaves and flowers of elanor in the grass, moonlight shining over the river Nimrodel, the memory of Doriath and Nargothrond and the pine-woods of Dorthonion where she had walked long ago with her brothers. There too was the twilight of Alqualondë, sands glimmering like pearl under the unclouded stars. And each of the women in the circle joined in with her in turn, adding her voice and the images of what she held most dear. Their voices blended together in harmony, and the thread under their fingers shone gently with light as the swift shuttles flew back and forth.

Arwen joined in too, singing in a sweet and clear childish voice. Though her power was still small, she instinctively added something of her own to the song. Galadriel caught flickers of images: the Hall of Fire in Imladris, the Bruinen rushing over stones.

When the song came to an end, Galadriel looked at her thoughtfully. “Would you like to learn this kind of weaving, Arwen?”

Arwen nodded eagerly. “It’s pretty. And I know the cloaks help to keep people safe. I want to do that too. My brothers say I’m too young to ride out with them, but I want to learn this!”

Galadriel smiled and rested her hand on Arwen’s dark head. “I didn’t have the patience for it when I was your age. But if you would like to learn, I will gladly teach you. And I believe you have a talent for it.”

Seeing Arwen looking up at her with bright eyes, she could not help thinking of Lúthien, and of Melian who had taught her so much. Some of the techniques and patterns she used now, she had learned from the Silvan Elves when she first came to Lothlórien, or among the skilled folk of Eregion, where so many ideas were exchanged until Sauron destroyed it all. But she remembered too what she had learned far across the Sea, her mother’s hands showing her how to hold the shuttle, and the white sails of Alqualondë.

She motioned for Arwen to stand beside her and placed the shuttle in the girl’s small hand, putting her own hand over it to guide her. “This is how you begin . . .”