“A shirt for Legolas.” Her father had said. It should be a simple thing. Yet it was not; had not been. She fumbled over the loom for a week, yet the fine silk cloth still formed with her errors intact. She ran her fingers over the small slubs again. Tears filled her eyes. She would rend the fabric in two! More! In twenty, if need be, and he would never discover how inadequate she was!

He found her there, weeping over the loom. Alarmed at first, he ran to kneel next to her.

“Thêl! What is the matter? Are you hurt?”

She dashed the tears away with the back of her hands, but did not look up.

“I can not do it, Leg’las,” she hiccupped.

"What can you not do, meleth?" he asked gently. Seldom had he see her so upset. Her eyes shone from crying. He tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. "Tell me."

“Father said...," she took a deep breath. "...to make you a shirt for your journey. I have tried, yet it comes out like this!”

She revealed the silver fabric with all its tiny flaws.

His callused fingers brushed over the delicate cloth. He tilted her chin up with his fingers. “You wove this for me?”

She nodded solemnly.

“Then it is perfect in every way,” he smiled. “I shall wear it proudly.”

Her lower lip quivered, and the tears that welled up in her eyes threatened to spill over once more.

“You will?” She hiccupped again.

He laughed, “Of course I will, if you finish it." He pressed the fabric back into her hands. " I shall tell everyone I meet, ‘my sister made this for me’.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I will even tell Lady Arwen and she is a weaver of great renown. She will see the care that has gone into it and find it just as beautiful as I do.”

“Oh, Legolas!” she threw her arms around his neck. “I love you!”

He hugged her close. “I love you too, Thêl.” And then he thought the words he did not say: I know not what awaits me in Imladris, but what joy to keep your work, woven with love, stained with your tears, close to my heart.

~*~