The Weaver's Knot. by hennethgalad

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

 

   

   Tuor sighed, the heat was intolerable, even naked on his bunk with the windows wide and the fresh sea breeze lifting the curtains. For the breeze was hot and brought no relief, and the curtains scarcely dimmed the blinding glare of the burning southern sun. The ship creaked, bleached white timbers strained and swelled, or shrivelled in the unrelenting torrent of light, and the shadow of the mast could hardly be seen in the midday sun. 

   It was too hot for song, the very seabirds quiet, riding the endless swell that surged across the vastness of Belegaer, restless as hunted horses. They had survived, the favour of Ulmo held good, and safe in his cradling hands the ship had reached Valinor, and he awaited the return of Idril, and news of his fate.

   He was at ease, (though the old injuries ached in his ageing muscles, and the old scars were wrinkles among other, newer wrinkles, laughter lines that did not fade) more so than he had been able to tell her, resigned to his fate, but unable to blemish her great hope with his doubt. 

   All knew that what she wished, truly, what they both wished, was unattainable. Even Lúthien had only found death. But while his beloved was happy, he was happy, and at first the warmth had been a relief. The freedom from the stiffness of draughts had been an unexpected blessing. But the further south they sailed (southwest! the captain had cried) the greater the heat had become until now it was a matter of merely enduring, waiting for the cool of evening. But the elves loved the starlight, happily turning day into night, enjoying the few cooler hours at first light when for a time their shadows lay long and thin across the sparkling waves.

    

   All was dark. He sat up, wondering if he had slept, and felt dizzy, for the ceaseless stir of the ship had stopped, and all was still. A voice, deep and soft, a silken pillow of a voice, spoke words that echoed in his bones, held him rigid, more awake than he had ever thought possible. 

   "You dream, Tuor son of Huor, but it is a true dream. I am Vairë, and I will show you a little of my work."

   Tuor rose to his feet, but could see nothing. The voice spoke again. "Many have taken these steps, Tuor, but you are the first among mortals to venture hither. Why have you come?"

   "My Lady, I would not have presumed, alone. Indeed I never saw any hope. But my darling Idril was set on the notion, she said she would never rest until she had at least tried. And I understood. I suppose I myself would have done the same, if I had a gift that I wished to share with her."

   "The gift is yours."

   "What do you mean? Do you mean that I may choose?"

   "That is the fate of the Second Children."

   "Truly? I... My Lady, of course I choose to live!"

   "Walk with me, and I shall show you what is woven here."

 

   Lúthien stood in the darkness beyond the great Doors. After an immeasurable moment a soft, powerful voice spoke, seemingly inside her head

   "Welcome, Lúthien, daughter of the Maia Melian and the Child Elwë. I am Vairë."

   "My Lady, I would plead for the life of my Beren!"

   "I do not hear such pleas, Námo awaits in his Halls. But first, I would show you my work."

   "My Lady, it would be an honour!"

   "You will be the first of the living to venture here."

   "If my wish is granted, is it your wish that I do not speak of what I see here?"

   "You may speak as you please, for each will see only what they know, thus there are no two paths alike through my Halls.

    

   See then."

 

   Colours filled the air around her, each colour, or point of light, changing into every possible colour at dazzling speed, the effect was bewildering, almost blinding, until patterns began to form, and Lúthien understood that this was the Ainulindalë, woven by the unimaginable hands of Vairë. She could not tell whether it were she or the weaving that moved, but there was motion, Time and Change.

   The patterns became complex, interwoven, intricate and subtle, but beautiful, until suddenly all was dark, then all around the stars of Varda twinkled reassuringly and Lúthien laughed with delight. There was Arda, shining in the Void, and as the light grew she saw the Hall for the first time, and the strangeness of the building. The walls were curved, and within each curve were smaller curves, and each smaller curve and suddenly Lúthien had a glimpse of the vastness of the Halls, ever expanding, each chamber curving into new chambers, and on and on, immeasurable and unending.

   "No." said Vairë "This is Arda. It will end, and We, and you, will end with it."

   "I only wish to be with my Beren."

   "He has the gift of death."

   "Then let me... Give me the gift of death. Please!"

   "I cannot. Nor may Námo. Only another mortal can do this thing."

   "Beren would do it, but then we would still be separated!"

   "Look now upon this."

 

   The laughing couple dangled the baby in the shining fountain, one hand in each of his. The baby screamed with glee, thrashing his bare little legs in the bright water, spraying his parents until even their golden hair was wet, and Lúthien wondered again who they were, for the vision had come to her many times.

   "That is Idril called the Celebrindal, daughter of Turgon and Elenwë, with her husband Tuor of the House of Hador, and their son Eärendil."

   "Idril Celebrindal? I long to meet her!"

   "Yet if you are to stay with Beren you will never see her."

   Lúthien was silent for a long time, while the golden couple laughed and kissed and the baby kicked delightedly at the water.

   "She will understand."

   "She will. For it is from Tuor that you will take the gift of death."

   Lúthien felt hot and cold, fear, pride, guilt and above all a desperate hope, awakening in agony for the first time. Beren! But at what cost?"

   "What do you... What are you saying?"

   "Tuor will take up your part in the Music, Lúthien Tinúviel, but whether Arda will be marred further, or made still fairer, none can yet say. But the child..."

   "Yes? Tell me of the child?"

   "Tell me of your weaving. Do you know the Weaver's Knot?"

   "Yes My Lady, when two threads, chiefly of differing girth or hue, are bound together, wherein the knot tightens as the threads are pulled."

    "Here there are two Weaver's Knots."

   "Two?"

   "When Arda was Marred, many threads were broken. But in some places, they cannot be joined as they were. You, and... I cannot say. But this dream, this unborn child, I know it to be a true vision. I feel... I feel the tug of the snapping thread."

   "The thread of my life?"

   "Yes. You will take the gift of death from Tuor son of Huor."

   "And the child?"

   "You line shall never fail."

   "I shall have a daughter? She will marry the child?"

   "I cannot say. I would that I could!"

   "Do you offer me counsel?"

   "No, daughter of Melian, I merely lead you through my Halls. You see what you are able to see, and I know that you see more than any who has yet, or will ever walk this path. But still you see only a glimpse of even all that your own song has to show, and you know nothing of the countless other paths, the nameless elves of the wild woods of Taur-na-Fuin, or the elves whose dwellings are so distant that the lands themselves are nameless... Your own father’s path is beyond your sight."

   "Oh My Lady! It is overwhelming! The world is so vast, and all I wish is to be with Beren."

   "All elvendom will grieve."

   "For me? My best friend betrayed me! Twice!"

   "He was no friend, he was a suitor. But when you spurned him his pride was wounded."

   "Beren would never betray me!"

   "What if he found that you loved another?"

   Lúthien laughed "Impossible!"

   "What if you love Arda more than you know, and you give it up, forever, to please him. How will he be when you grieve for all that you have lost. Your mother, your father, that child..."

   Lúthien clenched her fists; her jaw, and every sinew tightened. The breath hissed between her teeth as though a spear stabbed her heart.

   "I will not regret my choice." She sucked in a great shuddering breath "No! I have looked in the eye of the Morgoth! For love of Beren! Yes, though the fear was stabbing daggers of ice, yet still I sang! For Beren! He will never doubt me, nor I him."

 

    Tuor shook himself awake, but he was not awake. The voice of Vairë sounded through his trembling old bones "This is the love for which you, as has been foreseen, will relinquish the gift of death."

   He felt the tears rise to soothe his eyes, and let them fall "None who hear their tale are unmoved.

    But if death is a gift, how could it be given before the giver was born?"

   "Would you have the weaver reveal the secrets of the craft?"

   "I... Nay, My Lady, I do not think I should understand them even did you break your confidence."

   "This shall I say. Your wishes are granted. For they are the pleas of love, and the Enemy hates love more than all other things. But against the weaving together of love, the Enemy can do nothing. 

 

   Love moves us, Tuor; the Valar, the Maia, the Eldar, and else all that lives."