The
Tapestry.
One night at quiet Yuletide
I walked the palace stair
a fitting place, my father said,
for Elanor the Fair.
I went to find my mistress
I sought the weaving room
I heard her songs to Vaire
as she worked upon the loom.
She bade me shut the door fast
and showed what she had wrought
the portrait that we were to sew
in silken colours caught.
We stitched it with the finest silks
to ripple like the sea
in gold and blue and dark blood-red
a goodly tapestry.
We showed him as my father wished
the neck all scarred and stung
the sweat-stained clothes, the dry-parched lips
the flesh with anguish wrung.
We did not ask for candlelight
the room grew cold and still
the threads were full of whispers
and my fingers numb with chill.
We pierced the precious fabric
we broke the threads with shears
we sang our songs to Vaire
and marked the silk with tears.
The blues of ocean sapphire
the sable newly dyed
were dulled with salt and water
as we held the work and cried.
It hangs within the king's house
and there it hangs alone
a lovely, dreadful hanging
upon a wall of stone.
I touch it on the palace wall
with eyes too full to see
the portrait of the Ringbearer
made by the Queen and me.