Weaver

First part: https://www.roleplayer.me/view_blog.php?id=0000490867

[Another vague attempt at me writing something - practice and all that]

FA 128

“No Caseriel,” Thranduil said shaking his head. “I am not going!”

“You’d rather stay here and sulk?”

Thranduil looked up from the work he was doing and rolled his eyes. The loom was a mess, a mess of his creating and he knew he would be in for a mocking if he didn’t fix it. “I don’t want to leave this in a state like this,” he said.
“Worried you’ll get another verbal bashing?”

“My fingers are not as nimble as yours,” Thranduil said.

Caseriel laughed, “You’ve got that right. I can fix that if you want, then we can both go to.”

Thranduil turned his fingers to the loom and shook his head, “No, I won’t learn that way.” Weaving was a skill that he knew he had to learn, wanted to even but it was proving to be more difficult than he had anticipated. Looking at the tapestries that surrounded their home had always been a source of inspiration for him, and he had vowed to be able to do so himself one day. Today was not that day. Tomorrow wasn’t looking good either. Maybe he would never be as great as those who had created these works – Aenor for instance was a weaver of superlative talent, but he enjoyed the process.

“Suit yourself,” Caseriel said. “Shall I tell her that you’d rather be weaving then?”

“Tell her what you want,” he said, “I’ve decided that I don’t like her all that much anyway.” Thranduil knew exactly who Caseriel was attempting to tease him with and he did not rise to the bait.

“Sure, if you say so,” he shrugged. Thranduil turned his attention to the botched weave he had created and focused on loosening the threads. “Did you ever get her name?”

The tips of his ears burned but he still said nothing. Of course he’d not managed to get her name yet! He’d spent far more time avoiding seeing the auburn haired she-elf than he had with her. Their conversations were awkward, stilted almost and he was sure she was laughing at him all the time. As far as he was aware, they were barely friends.

“Like you did!” Thranduil snapped, unable to keep his tongue still.

“Yes,” Caseriel said. Thranduil snorted. “I will leave you to your loom!”

Thranduil waved his friend off, his attention falsely engrossed on the loom in front of him. The tangle was so bad, that he gave up trying to unpick it with the shuttle, and carefully used a needle to loosen the threads. It was delicate work, even for a novice, and it took a great deal of his attention. He was vaguely aware of time passing as he unpicked and worked at the rotten threads, and he knew he should eat something, but this seemed more important than anything else.

By the time he was approached once again, he thought he had the worst it under control and was about to start moving the shuttle back and forth between the threads once again. He looked up, straight into the blue eyes of the mystery she-elf he had claimed he didn’t like all that much.

She was carrying a small plate of food and a glass of wine. “Caseriel said you weren’t coming,” she said. Did he detect disappointment in her voice? Surely not.

“No,” he said.

She searched his face for a while, it was uncomfortable. “Why not?” He pulled his gaze from her and back to the loom.

“I wanted to finish sorting out this mess,” he said. He heard her walk over and place the plate down on the small table behind him.
“What have you done to that poor loom?” she asked.

“I fixed it!” he protested.

“Did you?” she asked. She shuffled on to the stool he had been sitting on, budging him up. Of course he moved and let her look at his work so far. She was silent for a long time, allowing him to study her. Damn it. This was making a liar out of him. Her skin smelled so fresh, vaguely floral with a note of something else. He was sure that if he tried, he could write poetry about all the shades of red-gold in her hair. “If you paid attention to what I am doing you might learn something, Thranduil son of Oropher,” she said.

Once again, he felt his ears burning. “Look, you see the weave here,” she said pointing at the thread attached to the shuttle. He nodded. “It’s far too tight. Up until this point, it’s really beautiful, but the tension increased and the thread has thinned. It’s what’s creating your problem.”

“Tension in my thread?” he asked.

“Yes.” She turned to look at him again, her head tilted, “But I think perhaps in other places too.” Thranduil stiffened at that, “You see, you think too much, you need everything to be just perfect but it never will be while you’re like that.”

“I don’t even know your name,” he said, “Why should I listen?”

She gestured to the loom in front of him. The thread had relaxed under her care. “Does it mean that much to you? I was told you don’t like me all that much!”

Thranduil snorted. “Caseriel tell you that?”

She smiled. “Is it true?”

“Yes, I think you’re a terrible elf and I never want to see you again,” he said. She raised an eyebrow. His face split into a smile and he shook his head. “You will make a liar of me!” She laughed.

“My name is Ellerian, daughter of Melrian,” she said.

“Why didn’t you tell me before now?” Thranduil asked. She took his hands in hers. They were warm and dry; he was sure his heart stopped beating at her touch.

“I had to be sure,” she said. He frowned again but she didn’t explain further. She was a most confusing she-elf, perhaps the most vague he had ever met. “Now, if you’re not going to come up to the gathering, we should spend the time constructively. Let’s get this bolt of cloth finished? Perhaps then you could take me for a walk in the moonlight?”
 
“I would enjoy that,” he said. Her hands guided his back to the shuttle.

“Show me how you do this,” she said. With that, he set back to work aware that he was now smiling.