Right, to work then.
If only it was that simple.
Laurenaro carefully unwrapped the parcel upon his desk, peeling back the paper to reveal the dress inside. It was everything Ealendil said it was, and more beautiful than her words could describe. Even as he handled it, he could not help but admire the softness of the fabric, the colors that were still rich and vibrant, a testament to the skill that had first woven it together and the love in which it was handled with. Really, his job was not a difficult one, retouching and resizing, making small adjustments to what was already there, was something nearly any tailor could do, but what made all the difficulty was the dress itself.
It was old. Not in the way things made by mortal hands became old, where they withered like leaves before winter and died, but old in the way the Firstborn aged. They became weary of the world that passed, strong and supple as they always were, but one did not need to become weak to become old. It was evident in how listlessly the fabric unfolded itself, reluctant to become so open, hardly aware of the touch that graced it. It was subtle, something that wouldn’t even be noticeable unless one was looking for it, or perhaps was sensitive to it, but present nonetheless. Of course he could still work on it and make the necessary adjustments, it would be good enough.
But why should he settle for something that was “good enough”? Not only for himself, but for a friend?
First, he opened the window. Then he hung the dress nearby, to let the sunlight and air dance upon its fabric. Such beauty could not be rushed, especially not when in this condition. A hair stylist could not work while their client was asleep, after all. And so, he sang while he worked.
A song of greeting, of awakening.
A song of stirring, of memories rising.
You were worn in the summer, in the sunlight adorning,
Of warm winds and flowers flourishing,
Upon the day of the season’s turning,
And the joy of the elven maiden’s laughing.
You remember her laughter, do you not?
You remember why you were wrought.
His hands grazed the fabric as his song, layered with both words and silence, of feelings bound by words and feelings flowing freely as the wind in the forest, filled the room. And everywhere he went and in everything he did, he filled the room with his presence, left his imprint upon the sleeping fabric, a memory to linger upon the memories already there. Not to linger for too long, but long enough to make even a weary one stir and wonder at the newcomer. One always had to knock before they were allowed in.
No change yet, but he was not surprised. It was, very old after all. Its weariness was something it had gotten used to. Laurenaro was never one to overstay his welcome or the patience of others so he left to follow the sounds of tinkering and hammering. Hotirme’s work was ever beautiful, ever so subtle and graceful, and watching her craft such delicate art out of metals and gems was ever a miraculous sight to behold.
—
When he came back in the evening, something had changed.
The room was exactly as he had left it, not a single even leaf of paper disturbed, but his eyes fell immediately upon the dress, all of his awareness coming upon it. Ah, there you are. Then he smiled, and approached.
A song of pleading,
Of forgiveness for so rudely intruding,
Upon such flowery dreams,
But does it remember the summer?
The fabric was lighter in his hands as he grasped it, more supple and alive. Yes, yes, this was much better. There was an imprint of summer in its cloth, stitched into every little thread. There was the song of Doriath, the faint scent of niphredil blooming, there was...a laugh? He pulled away from echoes of that song, listening more to the dress of the present. It would not do to listen to Ealendil’s mother when he had not even met her.
And now he could work. A request, first, a song of convincing. It remembers the maiden it belonged to? Her daughter needs it now, for the same purpose, in a union most beautiful and joyous. You remember the joy of a wedding. Would it not be wonderful to do it again?
It took a frustratingly long time before he sensed the acquiescence, the agreement, and the curiosity, even. Oh he had woken it enough for curiosity! What a delight!
He sang of trimming, of sewing and binding,
Of leaving form untouched, all rearranging,
That is not so bad, a new beginning,
Do you wish to feel spring?
Taking his measurements and noting them carefully as he worked, keeping up the stream of gentle music and prodding. The heavy scent of the new flowers swirling through the window, as the song of birds and the weight of Arda blooming. Isn’t it nice to feel this way? To have summer and spring upon your memory? Ever so delicately cutting the seams, only in the places he noted was necessary, to let out more fabric before sewing back up again. Clever, wonderful seamstresses of the past, having the foresight to make large seams for him to work with.
Cutting the bottom of the dress to hem it made his heart ache, but it was necessary, and he had the permission to do so. And—it felt better this way, anyway. He hid a chuckle and felt the stirring and restlessness growing with each new change. Old, tired spirit awakening, still old and filled with fond memories, but now wishing for newer ones.
Like the spring bursting forth from winter and stirring, no?
A good comparison. It was fitting, like a key into a lock. Something about it seemed to fill the air as he worked on his last stitches, perfectly invisible to the eye, and began to fold the dress back up again. It did so reluctantly, wishing to be free and flowing, to catch the winds and sunlight and laughter in the air.
It longed to feel spring.
Now, where was his pen? He had to write Ealendil.
