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Of Shoes and Ships and Sealing Wax

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There is the Weaver, and there is the Broideress, and, for a time, until she is rehoused, the Broideress is appointed to dwell with the Weaver.

 

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The Weaver has long admired the Broideress for her tapestries, and now she teaches the Broideress to spin Time and weave into History, writing the great tale on the walls of the dead.

 

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The first intimate meldings of the disembodied fëa the Weaver ignores as clumsiness in a new form.

 

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Years pass, and the touches grow less.

 

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The Broideress learns to talk in the language of fëar, and suddenly conversations filled with rich color thread their way through the Halls of the Dead.

 

 

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The Weaver does not care for the rules of her brethren.

 

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The company of the Broideress is the only thing the Weaver desires now, outside her work, and there is laughter in the Halls of the Dead.

 

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The Weaver’s spouse complains, once, laughingly, that the Weaver is more in love with the Broideress than with him.

 

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The Weaver realizes this is the truth.

 

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It is the Broideress who takes the first, faltering step, their minds joining in a way which is unspeakable.

 

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There is song in the Halls of the Dead, melodies of fëar entwining.

 

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The tapestries hanging the walls are touched with light and beauty.

 

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The King of the Noldor dies; the Broideress is free to go to the world of the living, to the world which she belongs to.

 

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“I will dwell with you, in your Halls,” the Broideress says. “I will not dwell the Halls of the Dead, but I will dwell with you until the end of Arda.”

 

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The Weaver rarely feels joy—hers is a task which requires lack of attachment—but now it bursts upon her like a star blooming in the morning of Eä.