Written for the LJ tolkien_weekly community "Tangled Web" challenge series.
Better than Before
Knit
Maedhros stared at the bandaged stump where once his hand had been. Beneath the cloth, flesh and skin slowly worked to knit together over his wrist in tough scar tissue. But there was no replacing his right hand, and he had to relearn everything now—writing, swordsmanship; even eating was a clumsy endeavor.
His gaze strayed to his left hand, still pale and thin—like the rest of him—from his long captivity. It rested on the table, almost waxy in the candlelight.
He rose and picked up his sword. He would relearn everything, and he would learn it better.
No Time for Songs
Weave
In his imagination, the harp's chords wove seamlessly with the delicate notes of a flute as well as soft Elven voices.
In reality, it was only his lone harp to set the melody, and his own weary, wavering voice to whisper laments to the stars – and they were his only willing audience. In Endor his brothers preferred the macabre song and dance of swords and blood to the strings of a harp, and battle cries were their hymns.
A warning call came from a sentry. Maglor tucked his harp away and rose with his sword to meet the approaching orcs.
We Should Go Hunting
Embroider
Celegorm fingered the embroidered arrows on his sleeve as he leaned against the doorframe. Curufin stood at the mirror, carefully braiding his hair. The scowl on his face reminded Celegorm of their father.
Things had not been going their way since Finrod's departure. "We should go hunting," Celegorm said. He needed to get away from stone walls and stony faces. Curufin grunted. He had been arguing with his son. Again. Celebrimbor was more like their cousins than a scion of Fëanor.
Within the hour they departed. What they hunted, neither knew…
Until out of tree-shadows rose Doriath's impossibly beautiful princess.
Understanding
Spin
The soft whirr of the wheel and spindle continued as Caranthir entered the room. Haleth inclined her head respectfully, but did not cease her spinning to rise. And he did not ask her to. Watching her long, calloused fingers guide the wool, he said, "My offer still stands. Your people will be protected in Thargelion."
"I thank you for it," she said. Dark grey eyes met Caranthir's, shining with quiet pride. "But we wish for our own lands. But we will remember your kindness, my Lord Caranthir."
"And the Noldor will ever recall the valor of the people of Haleth."
At the Last
Stitch
It was like a stitch in his side from running too long, but worse. Far worse. All around him, blood darkened snowdrifts, foamed in the angry waves, gushed from his veins. The eyes of the fallen stared unseeing at the sky. Smoke seared his nose and mouth as Sirion burned.
But it didn't matter. None of it. Not the city. Not the cursed Oath. He was dead already; his other half lay scant feet away, still clutching his broken sword in the white-knuckled grip of death.
He stumbled, coughed, tasted blood.
Námo was calling. Falling with a sigh, Ambarussa answered.