Warp and Weft

The lengthwise threads attached to a loom before weaving begins is the warp. The weft is woven back and forth through the warp to make fabric. Warp means "that which is thrown across" (old English). (From Wikipedia)

Chapter 1: Begin at the Beginning

"Why does it always come back?"

The pain was in his shoulder again, that familiar iron icicle—sharp and cold, aching and bone deep. Surely the jagged point was still embedded in his flesh and had never been removed; that it had been was the dream.

"Is it October again?"

Frodo held the crystal pendant in his hand tightly enough so that its edges bit into his palm. He had to do that. Only when he squeezed that hard did it do some good; that is, only then was he able to lose consciousness.

"Sam? Rose?"

Frodo came back to consciousness slowly, reluctantly. He was always unwilling at first, once he realized that he had been unconscious and was now returning to the waking world with all its bitter memories and losses. And he returned to its joys and victories; there had been many of those, too, though he was not eager to admit it at the moment.

At first, the reappearing material world held only the vaguest inklings for him, for he had no awareness of his body and its senses. He felt nothing, either cold against his skin or warmth in his beating heart. That was actually always the best part of these episodes, that sort of floating nothingness. He knew he still lived and that comforted him, but beyond that, nothing was required of him. It was restful.

This time, though, it was different. Usually, he eventually became aware of sound—Bilbo pottering around their strange yet homely house on the hill, bird song, the melodious voices of elves who stopped by to inquire into the Ring-bearer's well-being.

But this time there was no sound other than his own breathing. Instead of returning voices, he grew aware of a coolness at his back that had a solidity to it. He was lying on stone rather than on his comfortable bed. For a moment, fear clutched at him, shocking in its intensity after all that emotionless drifting. Was he back in the barrow?

He opened his eyes and took a deep breath. There was no hint of the barrow here, neither dank soil nor dreary voice come to mutter at him for his warm skin and living breath.

When he turned his head, his cheek brushed against cool stone, smooth enough that it had to be polished though it was too dark to tell exactly what it was. It appeared that he was lying on some sort of bench that was set next to a wall, also made of stone but not quite so polished. It was not rough when he stretched out his hand to investigate it in that it did not scrape his knuckles or feel rough against his palm, but it did not have quite the finished polish that the bench did.

Which seemed sensible, he said to himself as he swung his legs over the side of the bench and sat still for a minute, his palms pressed flat against the seat and his feet dangling while he gathered his wits about him.

It was dark about him though he could see the faint outline of his hand if he held it before him. But he had no idea where the source of light was coming from for he saw no windows. There was just this hint of areas that were darker and lighter in a regular pattern. He thought that perhaps he was in a hall of some sort.

He was curious and apprehensive but not exactly afraid. That much was clear to him, that he need not be afraid in this place. But it was very strange to him.

Then again, he could still be unconscious. That had happened to him before—and not just to him, to all his kin and friends. It had been quite a topic for discussion in the Green Dragon once upon a time (and still was for all he knew). It had been a sort of game to see who had had the strangest dream that had not seemed like a dream at all until it did seem like a dream but then maybe it didn't. Like the time Pippin thought he'd been trapped inside the Mathom House at Michel Delving, forced to inventory everything to Lobelia's specifications. Pippin was sure he had dust on his hands; he'd held them up to his nose and smelled the mustiness when he woke up, he said, but then maybe he hadn't woken up at that point though it had felt like it, especially the part when he'd gotten out of bed (or dreamed he'd gotten out of bed). And so on.

They would go back and forth in a sort of there and back again rambling conversation punctuated by shouts of laughter and many mugs of the innkeeper's best brew. The conversation usually ended abruptly when one of the older folk (the Gaffer was quite prone to doing this) gave them a quick bang on the head and a barked, "That'll be enough of that. There ain't no call to go traipsing about in dreams." The Gaffer was particularly vigilant to make sure Sam did not hear such things or give any credence to their outlandish ways. As it was, he was growing peculiar enough from his association with the Bagginses.

Frodo stood up, leaning one hip against the bench to steady himself and chuckling a bit in remembrance of Pippin's dreadful nightmare. He decided to take a little inventory of his own.

He was not in his snug home on the hill overlooking Avallónë and the sea.

Nor was he back home in the Shire.

He was certainly not in Rivendell.

Neither was he in any sort of Mannish or Elvish place (or Dwarvish for that matter though he was reminded of Moria a little for there was something about the sense of space opening out above him and around him).

He was not outside. At least he didn't think he was outside. He reached out and touched the wall behind him, then sniffed to see if he detected any scent of soil or tree or something that would give him the information he needed. The air was cool and smelled clean; if there was any scent, it was a hint of beeswax.

Right. Inside. Not outside. For whatever that was worth.

He appeared to be alone, which certainly made sense if he were still sleeping. He was alone in many of his dreams, or, if not exactly alone, separate from the other inhabitants of his dreams. That was normal to him; he'd almost stopped wondering why. It was odd that this dream was so tactile. That was unusual, but then, dreams did not necessarily make much sense and if they did, the meaning of them usually came much later.

"Very well," Frodo said aloud. "I am dreaming."

"Then we are experiencing the same dream, Frodo of the Lonely Isle."

Well, he felt that right through him; it made his toes curl up under him, it did.

How strange. He hadn't seen it before, but there was light here. It wasn't close, no, but he could make out a faint radiance far down the hall. For he was in a long, broad hallway; his eyes had adjusted to the gloom enough so that he could see it now. Though he could not see the speaker and could not tell the direction of her voice. "Do you not wish to speak with me now? You did call me, after all."

"Yes, my lady," Frodo answered. He did not know her voice, and yet it was familiar to him. Perhaps he'd heard it before in his dreams.

"No, you are awake. And I am waiting. I haven't all day, you know. I have much work to do. It never stops. Never. Not yet."

Frodo walked toward the light and the voice, noting with a quick nod of satisfaction that the regular areas of very dark and not quite so dark were indeed the alternation of thick round stone pillars and the arched gaps between them. He thought he caught a gleam of something in the empty spaces—ornaments on the walls, he supposed, perhaps paintings. There were flashes not just of silver and gold but of rich colors, blue and green and glowing crimson.

But he did not dare keep this mysterious lady waiting. Not that he wanted to, for he could still hear her, and her voice was lovely though he realized the word was inadequate. The tone was interesting; there was something in it he could not put his finger on until he had heard more of it.

As he walked, the light grew brighter though never more than that given off by a handful of candles. But even with the increasing illumination, he could not make out the decorations on the walls beyond patches of color. Nor could he make out the lady's words though she continued speaking (or was it singing) in a very soft voice.

When he reached the source of the light, he saw that candles indeed lit the scene and that this new space was not small. This surprised him for he had thought that the area beyond the columned arcade was not deep. Certainly what he had seen during his approach had told him that; though he had not been able to see the details, he had been able to tell that there were walls and color ... something.

But here was an entire room or deep alcove and it stretched for at least ... well, he wasn't sure for the light did not carry so far and the back of the niche (or whatever it was) was lost in shadows.

"Lady?" Frodo asked. Perhaps she was waiting for him, watching from the shadows. But she did not answer.

Frodo entered the room through an arched opening between two pillars. There was no door but it seemed a doorway to him. He took a few steps inside, his feet firm on the smooth stone floor, and stopped several yards inside.

There was no furniture other than square stone pillars holding thick yellow candles; they were set at even intervals along the walls of the long room. Other than that, there was nothing but tapestries hanging on the walls. At first look, then, it seemed that this place was a sort of gallery.

Frodo stepped closer to the tapestry nearest to him, and his mouth fell open for he recognized the subject—his and Bilbo's arrival at Tol Eressëa. There was the harbor at Avallónë, the lamp-lit quay, the grey ship shining with silver. It was very beautiful. He might have thought it was a painting except that the individual threads caught the candlelight in such a fashion that no paint could ever mimic so perfectly. A quick brush of his fingertips over the silky texture affirmed the fact for him.

Though Frodo wanted to just gaze and gaze at this first tapestry until he had every thread of it memorized, nevertheless soon he moved on to look at the others. Each one illustrated his life after he'd left Middle-earth. They alternated on opposite walls, which seemed a little odd but Frodo tucked that question away for later. For now he was content to take in the tapestries and to wonder how, if he was not dreaming, they had come to be here.

Another odd thing was that, as he passed down the room, the candles grew dimmer or brighter, depending on his location, providing enough light to show him the scene he stood before. He could not resist touching each tapestry as he came to it; as with the first one, they were all silky and smooth to the touch, clearly made of finely-woven threads.

Finally, Frodo stood midway between the final two scenes. One appeared to be complete, and the other ... well, he did not understand its making but it appeared to be in the process of being woven though no loom or other tool was present. Each of the vertical warp threads was in place and stretched taut though he saw no wooden frame to hold them tight, but only a small portion of the weft was woven into the warp, and not enough to tell the subject of the scene.

He turned his attention to the complete tapestry, moving so close to it that he could smell the silk threads. His eyes filled with tears as he stared.

"You miss him."

He had not heard her approach; he'd almost forgotten her completely in his wonder. There was no question in her voice, but Frodo gave an answer anyway, without turning his head to look at her. "Yes."

"Was he all you had here?"

"Yes ..." Frodo could have bit his tongue for saying that; he wanted to pull it back that much. Plus it wasn't true, or at least not always true. "No."

"Has he been gone long?"

"Do you not know?" Frodo could not resist saying that.

"I believe I could puzzle it out, but ... well, it is not a detail I usually concern myself with. Once the scene is complete, it is done and over with, at least for me."

Frodo looked hard once more at the scene before him and, even in the midst of his grieving, he wondered at the skill of the tapestry maker to have caught every facet of Bilbo's dying face—the fine web of lines, the sharpness of his cheek bones that age had made all the more prominent, the loving expression in his eyes as he bid Frodo farewell.

When Frodo turned round, he halfway expected that his mysterious Lady would have disappeared again, but there she was, standing tall and slender before him. Though she had to be a very grand person, very high among the great ones, her clothing belied that for she wore a simple dress of what looked to be dark green homespun. It could have been spun and woven in Hobbiton except for the size. Her dark hair was caught in one long braid down her back, the tips of her pointed ears peeking out. Her eyes were grey and the expression on her face solemn.

"Hail, Frodo. I hope I might be of service to you." She bowed her head a little, and her thick braid swung over her shoulder. It was tied at the nape of her neck and at the end of the tail with plain yellow ribbons.

Frodo bowed in return, trying to think of words he could fashion that would make sense. Best start with simple things first. "I mean no disrespect, Lady. May I ask your name?"

She smiled then though it was a grave one, and Frodo wondered if she ever smiled full-hearted. "Do you know of the Halls of Mandos?"

Frodo swallowed hard. "Have I died"
She held out one hand and touched Frodo on the shoulder with just a light brushing. "No, indeed, though you did call me to you while you slept."

"I ... don't understand."

"Do not worry. I believe we shall puzzle it out together though I shall begin."

"I would be grateful."

"Well, first things first as I always say. Start at the beginning, take a first step, set the first stitch ... and so on. My name is Vairë, and I live here in the Halls of Mandos with my husband, Namo. I weave the stories that you have lived, and I keep them safe here. Have you heard of me?"

There was something in Frodo's memory that was tugging at him, but it was such a thin strand that it slipped through his fingers before he could catch it. He said, "I believe I know a little ... or rather, I think Gandalf told me of you at one time, but I'm afraid I might not recall very well."

She laughed then and, like her smile, it had a solemn ring to it. "I have been told you are most courteous, and I see now that it is true. And what did ... Gandalf ... tell you?" She said the wizard's name slowly, stretching out the short syllables, and seemed to savor the saying of it.

"Do you know him?"

She looked toward the main hallway (at least, Frodo thought it was the main one though he was beginning to wonder if there were any beginning or end to this place) and said softly, "Yes, I do. He has been here before ... more than once."

"But I thought ..." Though he knew quite well that Gandalf had passed through fire and death once, it upset him to think that it had happened more than once.

"Ah," she said and stepped closer to the tapestry of Bilbo's passing. She put out one slim hand and tugged at its bottom, straightening it though to Frodo's eyes it had appeared set perfectly on the wall. Frodo watched her and noticed for the first time that the tips of her fingers were stained with some sort of ink or pigment of many hues. She turned her gaze on Frodo again. "Gandalf has come to these halls once in the usual way, but he has visited me at other times to see what he could of things that have passed in Arda, especially in that part which lies over the Sea. He sought learning of me. I believe he made good use of it. Perhaps I might do the same for you, Frodo."

Frodo understood then, at least, how Gandalf had learned. And now he thought he had a glimmering of why he was here, but just a hint. "You said earlier that I called you. How? I don't remember that."

"But you were unwell, were you not? And you slept uneasily?"

"Yes."

Vairë said nothing but instead crossed the room to the barely-started tapestry. Frodo followed her. She stood very close to the threads and raised her hand to it, her body and the shadow cast by the lit candles shielding the area from Frodo's view. When she stepped aside, she rubbed her hands, clenching and unclenching them as though she were tired.

"There's more now!" Frodo said for he could see that the scene had received some additions and embellishments though it was still far from complete. But he thought he could tell a little about its content now. "It's this room, isn't it?"

Vairë nodded and smiled her grave smile again. "Yes, indeed, for this room is the location where your path will reach another important crossroad."

"What am I to do?"

"Watch ... and listen ... best of all would be for you to understand ..."

"Understand what?"

"Your life on the Lonely Isle. Now that Bilbo has gone ahead, you are at a loss for what you are to do with yourself. Old pains have come back that you thought faded, have they not?"

"Yes."

"Or perhaps they have never really gone away."

"Not completely."

"And you do not know what to do."

"No. I don't. Can't see why I should at the moment."

She raised one eyebrow and neither smiled nor frowned. There was something calming in her. It was very strange, perhaps as strange as his pert response to this lady, but Frodo was not drawn to her as he had been to others he had met in his time in the West. But there was something in her that made his head clear a bit, made him want to turn away from the highs and lows to look at things with an even temper and open eyes.

"I am ready, Lady Vairë," he said.

She smiled a little, turned and walked to the front of the room.

"Why can I ..."

She turned to him. "Yes?"

"You are one of the Guardians." Though Frodo did not ask a question, nevertheless Vairë nodded in affirmation. He trembled a little for it was now being borne in on him exactly who he was seeing and talking to (much more impertinently than a hobbit should in some cases). Still, he had this question and she seemed willing. "I have never met one of the Guardians before though I have been in the West for some years and others I know do see your kind. I thought that was the way of it ..."

"And how would you know whether you had or not?"

Frodo's mouth dropped open at this gentle revenge that Vairë took at his prior impudence.

"Come now. Shall we start at the beginning?" Vairë spoke briskly and stepped quickly toward the first tapestry. Frodo padded after her and looked up at it. Oh, it was so alive; had he even noticed that before? It almost seemed now as if the sea water slapping against the stone quay was actually moving as the waves receded, leaving their bright foam sparkling in the sun. He could just about smell the salt scent, and he had to stop himself from squinting at the brightness of the tall white tower on the hill overlooking Avallónë. Oh, yes, he remembered the beautiful tower which, when he first saw it, reminded him so poignantly of the three on Tower Hill near the borders of the Shire.