Woven with Ribbons by StarSpray

Woven with Ribbons

Read Woven with Ribbons

I.

It was a bright, clear day. No clouds could be seen in the brilliantly blue sky, except for the dark fumes that hung ever on the edge of the northern horizon, over Angband—but there were always dark clouds on that horizon, and Ereinion hardly noticed them. The windows of his bedroom were flung open to let in the breeze, and the scent of flowers and of dewy grass.

Ereinion sat on his bed holding up a mirror; its frame was ornate and heavy, but he kept it steady as he watched his father’s slender fingers twist his hair into braids befitting a Prince of Noldor. Into the braids Fingon wove ribbons—not golden threads like he wore himself, but yellow silk, bright and sunny.

“There,” Fingon said at last, tying off the last braid. He rested his hands on Ereinion’s shoulders. Ereinion studied himself in the mirror. The yellow silk was very bright against his black hair. The gold in Fingon’s braids glinted in the sunlight through the window. He smiled, and saw his same smile on his father’s face when he tilted the mirror just so. “Shall we show your mother?”

“And Grandfather!” Ereinion jumped off of the bed and spun around, feeling his braids swing out behind him. Someday it would be bright gold and silver and not mere silk that adorned them, when he was as tall and as splendid as Fingon and Fingolfin.

When he said so, Fingon laughed, and scooped him up, only to tip him over so he hung upside down, the tips of his braids brushing the floor as he squealed. “Do not be so hasty, Ereinion,” Fingon said. He laughed, but there was something serious in his eyes. “Enjoy the sunshine of today without wishing for tomorrow. Who knows what it will bring?”

“It will bring sunshine and picnics with Mother!” Ereinion said. “And riding with Aunt Lalwen!”

“It might also bring a storm,” said Fingon.

“No! Grandfather promised it won’t!” Summers in Hithlum would always be glorious, green and blue and clear, and filled with merry singing in the pastures.

 

II.

No sunlight reached Ereinion’s window through the haze of lingering smoke. The fires nearest to Hithlum had been put out by a rain, but elsewhere they still burned, and the smell of burning wood and grass—and sometimes worse things—drifted over the mountains with every change in the wind.

“Auntie, you forgot the ribbons!” Ereinion picked up his yellow ribbons from where they lay on his bed, which had been stripped of all its blankets; all of his things were packed away, little of which was intended to go with him. Usually it was his nursemaid Baraneth who readied him for the day, and she never forgot his favorite ribbons.

“This is not a day for ribbons, my star,” Lalwen said as she tugged the comb through his hair and began a second braid. Her own hair was pulled back into a very simple, single braid down her back, and was unadorned with her usual pearls and emeralds. “We must travel swiftly and in secret. The lands are too dangerous.” But when she finished with his hair she took the ribbons and neatly coiled them up and tucked them into a pocket of Ereinion’s jacket, just over his heart. “Keep them in hopes of happier times,” she said softly. “You shall wear them when you come again home to your father.”

Fingon bid them farewell gravely; there were no tears, but neither were there smiles, or promises of soon meeting again.

“Do not look back, Ereinion,” said his aunt as they passed through the smoke and the mists, heading southward. “You must keep looking forward.”

Ereinion did not watch the hills of Hithlum vanish into the mists behind him, but later he was the first to catch sight of the Sea stretching out before them, shining in the sunset.

 

III.

The last tile on the last roof of the last great building in Mithlond had been laid that morning, and following similar celebrations in Harlond and Forlond, the streets were alive with people. Music filled the air, and the smell of many foods cooking at once, and laughter, and a general bustle of life.

It was the third such celebration that Gil-galad had attended in Lindon and still it felt new and marvelous. This night, though, Gil-galad had braided his own hair in the style that his father had taught him long ago on a sunny afternoon in Hithlum, only now he wove white ribbons through them, and secured them with diamond pins that glittered like stars in his dark hair, befitting his epessë, and eschewing the gold threads that reminded everyone too much of Fingon. The yellow silk ribbons of his childhood remained in a small velvet-lined box, tucked away in a chest, rarely looked at anymore.

Now he stood behind Elrond, who very rarely bothered with elaborate braids, preferring the simpler Sindarin styles. On this night, however: “You are as much a prince of the Noldor as you are of the Sindar,” Gil-galad said as he carefully parted Elrond’s hair to begin braiding. For Elrond he had dark blue ribbons, threaded with silver. “You should style yourself as one, once in a while.”

“You never bothered with all this before,” Elrond said, wincing as his hair was pulled.

“There were more important and practical things to worry about,” said Gil-galad. “But now we have the freedom to be impractical again.” It was with a pang that he thought that for Elrond it was not again, it was for the first time.

When Elrond’s braids were finished and he was dressed in new robes of midnight blue, Gil-galad smiled proudly; he looked every inch a prince—of any of the peoples who might claim him. Elrond examined himself in the mirror and smiled brightly. “I think I like being impractical.”

They went down together to the festivities. The future had never looked brighter.

 

IV.

The clouds and fumes that spewed from Orodruin were so thick and foul that Mordor was cast into perpetual night, lit only by flares and fires when the mountain shuddered. The air tasted bitter, and burned the lungs with each breath. They had been fighting in this gloom so long that sometimes Gil-galad thought that he had forgotten what the stars looked like.

In a lull between battles, Gil-galad found a little time to loosen his hair, easing a comb through the snarls and matted dirt and ash and blood. His scalp ached—all of him ached.

Elrond sat cross-legged on the floor of Gil-galad’s hastily-erected tent, maps spread out before him. His fingers twitched with quiet calculations, though Gil-galad did not think there would be time to put in motion whatever plans he was forming.

Once his hair was free of tangles, Gil-galad sighed and began to braid it back again—one single plait, plain and unadorned, then twisted up and pinned securely to fit beneath his helm. He had grown used to lovely ornaments and intricate styles in the longs years of peace. Somehow this plain coil weighed on his head more than any number of jewels and ribbons ever had.

A horn sounded outside, and Gil-galad rose. “This will be the last push,” he said as Elrond handed him Aeglos. Certainty settled over him like a cloak. Whatever end was coming to this war would come that day—and his own with it.

Elrond looked at him gravely. “Yes,” he said.

“And then you will go home,” Gil-galad said, and smiled, “to Imladris, and to Lady Celebrían.”

“And you to Lindon by the Sea.”

Gil-galad did not answer, but bowed his head and picked up his helm.

 

V.

The sky was blue and cloudless, and the land all around was green—and the unfamiliar flowers were like bright jewels gleaming in the sunshine. Gil-galad blinked as he stood before the doors of Mandos. He could feel every blade of grass beneath his bare feet, and every stitch of the plain linen robes that clothed him. The breeze was scented with sweet smells that he did not know, and in the distance he could see a forest of strange trees, tall and stately. A flock of birds passed overhead, calling to one another with sweet voices.

The breeze blew his hair across his face, the strands soft as silk against his skin. When he brushed it out of his eyes he saw that he was no longer alone; a figure with gold threaded through dark hair raced down the hill towards him, calling out with a joyful voice.

Fingon met Gil-galad with a crushing embrace, both of them laughing and weeping all at once. Then Fingon stepped back, keeping his hands on Gil-galad’s shoulders. Gil-galad blinked at him, startled to find that he had to look down into his father’s face.

“How you’ve grown!” exclaimed Fingon, laughing delightedly. “Tall almost as Turgon!”

“I finished growing quite a long time ago,” said Gil-galad.

“And I wish I had been there to see.” For a moment Fingon looked wistful, and ran his fingers through Gil-galad’s hair, catching on a few tangles, and then he took him by the hand. “Come! Leave the past where it lies for now. There is so much I want to show you!”

There would be time later to speak of the past, and the things they had each done, and the lands they left behind. For now, though, Gil-galad let his father pull him along the path lined with small white stones, up toward the trees. He laughed for the sheer joy of it, feeling lighter than he ever had in his life, without any crowns or helms, nor even so much as a ribbon to weigh him down.