Long fingers plucked away at colored thread, intertwining admits itself in the most complex of mannerisms. Upon a close glance, one could see each individual string being coaxed and tugged together, lacing upon itself as if it were a wound in need of mending. But if one were to step away, and glance upon the tapestry in which it was meant to be seen—why they would be peering upon what could only be described as that of a masterpiece.
Blue oceans rose upon the canvas and above such were many birds in flight. You could almost hear the waves crashing upon the shores, or the sweet tune of the flying creatures in melodic chatter—they all gravitated towards that of a single island-- and what a grand island it appeared to be. Whose towers were made of stone and carved wood, reaching towards the heavens, where did a sun shine most brightly.
It was a curious thing this tapestry. It was made of nothing but of the loom, and within itself was nothing of living creation. But there seemed to be a spirit that dwelt inside it, for how many of its threads appeared to hum in that of pride. Pride no doubt created by those said fingers that strung it, who seemed too perfect to be responsible for such a thing. There were no blisters upon the skin, not even a prick from the needle they pinched in hand.
No, they merely belonged to even fairer hands that kept it what appeared to be constant motion—never pausing nor hesitating or even allowing that of a single mistake. “ ’Tis not something meant for man to understand.” Spoke the voice, and dare one ask what this voice may be. Why, it is the voice you are reading this text in, something belonging to your own but something entirely different as well. It is the voice of the ages, the teller of tales; something of an interloper.
“It is also the voice of myself.” It said again, and must confess to you, dear reader, to be that of the text in which is being written as we sit before this tapestry; in these hallowed halls. Ah yes, you take notice now of the vastness in which you are surrounded—by the cold stone that align either wall. Pillars of magnificent stature tower over head, and it seems now you have noticed, all is silent.
But it is not dark, and perhaps now that is the most curious of things. It was bright, as if illuminated by light but no light could be seen. “Perhaps you would enjoy that of an introduction?” the voice calls to you and now you see it. You are able to look past that tapestry of those singing seas, and the bending curve of arms that stretched out towards it. You look upon her backside now, this voice which speaks to you and is you all the same; and see now that it is a small and slender thing.
But she was not lost before the glory that was the tapestry in which she spun. She seemed only to be complimented by it and appeared almost to be of it as well—or it being of her. Perhaps such was of the garments she wore, that seemed to be of the similar thread that was being needled into the cloth. It was white, no—not completely so; there seemed another color among the voice’s robes but it was almost as if you possessed no word for it.
"I am known by many names." She spoke to you, and dare you noticed she seemed to possess a great deal of affection for you. Nothing of her posture confessed this, no. She did not even care to cast you that of a glance, fixated upon what she weaved before her. But there seemed to be love in that voice of hers-- but to say it was purely her own voice would not do it justice. "But Vairë I am known by the tongue of the people."
Her hands paused and you notice now they were not perfect as you had once foreseen. They were stained by the inks of the ages and the skin upon the knuckles appeared almost coarse; as if the skin of an animal being stretched out to dry in the hopes it could some day become parchment to be written upon. You found yourself glancing towards her face, but you were not allowed to see such. It was hidden, by the shadows that even her eyes did not gleam within.
But her voice you still heard and you felt that within it; you could see her clearly. Smiling in a bright brilliance that seemed almost squandered to be kept away in these desolate cornerstones where that of her only companion was that in which she made herself-- the histories of those that dwelt before and are dwelling now and shall dwell further, forevermore. "It is the West-Lands upon which we see." She spoke to you, though she has been speaking with you for sometime now, as she does so this very moment.
"I believe you know it by that of it's more common-tongue; Númenor." It seemed almost as if the tapestry radiated within its own brilliance upon the speaking of its name, and you can see now the statues of powerful men dwelling within it; reaching out their hands as if to command the very earth for their own bidding. "It is the place of Westernesse and was held within the womb of the Great Sea." She spoke this all without pause, "A gift to men to whom you share with in having been sired by the sun."
Vairë. Her name was no longer foreign within your consciousness, the weaver as she was also known. Spouse to that of Námo, keeper of Mandos; the halls in which cradle the dead. You do not belong here, you know this now; a sacred place in which the first were only allowed. Those of the fair-eared who had tasted the throttle of battle. "Do not question for what purpose it is you have to be within that of my presence."
She comforted you now and you knew not if you should think of her name within your mind again. It seemed unfitting to call one who was not known by name; she a queen of the higher powers who was hidden to the sight of near them all. "You are here merely to listen, to learn that of an unfortunate end of those who refused to allow their hearts to be swayed." You had not noticed until now, but the tapestry was dark; as if a candle snuffed of its light.
Its oceans had calmed, its birds had parted and those strong towers had fallen ways into the sea. She did not pause, the Power, forced to keep upon the story of this world. But you could sense she lingers, apart of her that is; to isle in which could now no longer be seen upon the tapestry. "Elenna had much to give before her time, and there are teachings within her breast that echo upon the chasm, in a desperate need to be spoken."
Her voice, which did not change in temper nor tempo seemed to demand for your attention more and more. You do not belong here, you kept thinking; you did not deserve a seat beside that of she to whom was also once called Gwîr. "I cannot thread the last seam of this until all is known and has been laid to rest. For while there are some stories that do not grace the light of Eä, this is not of such things."
She did not turn to you, did not face her body to your own. She did not even touch you with that of her stained hands. But you felt almost as if she came about you, even though she did not move; that her arms had drawn about your shoulders and her chin was resting near to that of your ear. "I suppose like all good stories, we must start with that of the beginning." You looked to the tapestry now, and once more was it consumed by light.
As if brought to an age in which it was first being weaved, younger even though you know time has no age. "Great was the evil that had just been defeated, one to whom we shall not speak. Your kin had much to do with it, and a reward was decided to be given." upon the tapestry, you watched it rose; the land in which was lead by the star of Eärendil, the dwelling for the faithful Edain. "How the House of Bëor had suffered and I fear their suffering shall continue even after we part ways."
You did not leave her presence, but you felt as if you were going away. For though you continued to stare at her backside as she weaved and weaved, things seemed almost fading; yet she was still at your side. "Elros, brother of Elrond was crowned first king and for many an era there would be peace. But that peace is soon ending and such is where we shall begin..."