Continued from Blood in Eregion
“It was long ago when my people first realized that the bare rocky hill would be a good dwelling-place, for it was steep, and not easy to climb, and afforded a wide view of the country all around, so that the approach of enemies could be seen and prepared for. We had no fortress to flee to in those days, and did hide ourselves in thickets and caves. But we left the southern forest, abandoned the old place, and the land changed and grew sick and twisted as a seed sown in the dark. We did not know of the Darkness settled on Amon Lanc until far later.
There were rumours of a tower built by sorcery, stretching far up into the gloomy clouds which swirl thick and black ‘round its pinnacle and ebb never. It is just so - I have seen it. And I saw great stone slabs on each side of a monstrous gate of iron, and these bear traces of fire, perhaps evidence of an old siege, but I have never heard tell of any attacks on the Tower. I do not think it was any of my people - we are unacquainted with those tools used for siege and assault, and the prospect of scaling the walls and conquering the inhabitants within is...daunting to us.” Parnard made a little cough of embarrassment and gave the other elves a close and furtive look.
These Noldor were of quiet mood tonight, lost in thought perhaps, and Estarfin seemed even grimmer than usual. Parnard was not even sure if they were listening. He wanted to celebrate their victory at Pembar, but something in Estarfin’s mood made him hesitant to bring out the wineskin. Too bad, it was a good vintage, one that should be savored during better times. These might never come to pass, he realized, and they may all be cut to ribbons tomorrow, but he would not risk inflaming the dark warrior’s brain, not even for the finest Dorwinion, and hasten along their inevitable deaths. Yet the moon was high and the stars shone cold and bright above. Parnard was restive, and idly wondered why he had been passed over for watch-duty again. He fished around in a pocket of his tunic, finding his needle kit, made from two seashells bound together with a springed hinge of brass. Inside lay a piece of dried tree moss spiked with what appeared to be fine silver thorns. He selected a needle and tested its sharpness by pricking it smartly against his fingertip.
“The Tower is a graceless, foul, ugly place, full of malice and shadows of its ancient and cruel builder," he continued. "None enter without his will. Wickedness flies in on wings of night, for it is welcomed in the Tower. There it rules. It rules, and serves...rules...and serves...”
Parnard’s raspy voice drifted off as he unrolled a length of fabric adorned with fanciful flowers, birds, and trees worked in glaringly bright colours. He smoothed it out in his lap, giving it a gentle pat, and threading his needle with an appalling shade of orange yarn, fussed over it with as much care and attention an ardent lover would give his sweetheart. He added an unexpected touch of florid shading to the azure plumage of a bird, its beak frozen wide as if shocked at the boldness of this latest assault to the eyes. It was evident, both from the crumbling of the selvedges and the thickness of the stitches laid close upon the frayed backing, that Parnard had occupied himself with this work for a very long time. It started out as his sampler, a work to learn and practice crewel needlework, but he had mastered the technique centuries ago, and those first tentatively stitched motifs were buried deep underneath layers upon layers of wool thread.
If asked why he did not ever lay it aside and start a new project, Parnard would impatiently say that it was not finished and snatch it from view. When questioned in his bizarre choice of palette, or when it was pointed out that the birds and trees did not resemble anything of nature, as much as ghastly specters of pattern and colour, the wood elf would tilt his head to one side and seem to contemplate the criticism thoughtfully, but never took a single suggestion into practice. It did no good to explain his work to anyone; he told himself that they could not see what he saw and therefore would never understand anything. Why, a mere glance would immediately create the attitude required for its appreciation; its unity was supremely evident, there was no imaginary space to lose oneself in, as every square inch of the backing material was encrusted with thread. The scrap of linen and wool comforted him, its bright colours cheered his depressed spirits and averted his eyes from ugliness and misery. Oftentimes, he would gaze at his work endlessly, and become so overwhelmed that the notion of abandoning it and starting a new one was deplorable. Because the mania of stitching wholly occupied his mind when he took it up, so it must invariably express itself, and unwittingly display those facets of it which were usually hidden; thus, the peculiar treatment given to the flora and fauna. If they reminded one of actual creatures and plants, it was purely accidental.
A day would come when the embroidery would crumble apart under its own weight, but until that day arrived, Parnard would change the shapes and colors at least a hundred more times, and forget himself inside the object of his rapt attention, which was all that really mattered.
