As Time Unrolls by Lyra

Sun IV

Written for the B2MeM 2012 "Maglor in History 1" prompt, Maglor in the Fourth Age. Not actually featuring Maglor.

Sun IV.
Moments of Peace

"I wonder how long he is going to last," Vairë says to herself, her fingers gently interweaving the colourful threads into a seaside scene. On the sun-bleached sandstone overlooking the ocean sits an Elf, his hands on a harp of ancient make, gold and brown against the pale yellow stone. Raven hair waves in the inland breeze. The last part is artistic license: A harper playing in a windy place would be wise to fasten his hair, lest it get tangled in the strings, but Vairë likes the way it looks.

"Who?" says Míriel, almost making her lady jump. "The new king?"
Vairë wonders whether she can answer truthfully. She does not wish to hurt Míriel, or any of her servants, really. They see enough hurt in their daily work. Now is a rare time of peace, permitting them to recover a little; but they are still reeling from the end of the Third Age, and no doubt this respite will end sooner or later.
"He will last a lifetime," Vairë finally says. "As they do. No, I mean your grandson."

Míriel moves in, softly, looking at the tapestry. Gently, she strokes the woven Elf's dark hair.
"He is still staying," she says, something like wonder in her voice. "He is one of the last, is he not?"
"The Ages of Men have begun," Vairë says. "Not many of your people are left in Endor."
Míriel nods, smiling. "His choice is the opposite of mine, is it not?"
Vairë ponders that. "Yes, one might say so."
Míriel nods again. "There must be balance. He will last long." She strokes the tapestry again. "This is beautiful."

"Yes," Vairë says. "I thought we'd better start recording the moments of insignificant beauty, too. They will be significant when darker times come again."
"So you think there will be darker times again?"

Vairë spreads her hands (impossibly even and smooth: any Child weaving so much would have callused hands with rough skin and chipped nails).
"There will always be darker times," she says as kindy as possible. "Such is the fate of Arda Marred. I wonder if your grandson must see them all."
"I wonder if he must be alone all that time," Míriel says. "It is terrible to be alone for so long."

Vairë looks at Míriel sympathetically. "He has got his music," she says, turning back to the tapestry. "And of course, their paths might cross..."
A sandy beach comes to life on the loom, not far from the sandstone cliffs. Almost hidden by dogroses and blades of long grass sits another slender figure, raven-haired, playing a silver flute.