The sun, a vague warmth against my blindfold, climbed higher, marking another day trapped within this weaver's cage. Elara's usual morning chatter was muted, her movements more deliberate. My questions from the night before, innocent as they were, had clearly struck a nerve. The scent of her worry, thin and sharp, permeated the cottage air, mixing with the ever-present aroma of wool and lamp oil.
I worked at the loom, Lyra's hands moving with an practiced grace that infuriated my queenly soul. Each rhythmic clack-clack-clack was a reminder of my impotence, of the mundane existence I was forced to inhabit. But even in this tedious labor, my mind was relentless, sifting through the layers of Elara's responses. "Dangerous to speak of such things." "Old magic." "Best left undisturbed." These were not the ramblings of a superstitious elder; they were warnings.
"Elara," I said, my voice carefully modulated to sound thoughtful, almost mournful, rather than probing. "Do you ever… miss seeing, for me? Do you wish I could see the patterns I weave?"
Her loom paused, the sudden silence stark. "Oh, Lyra, my lamb," she whispered, her voice thick with genuine emotion. "Of course I do. Every day. It grieves my heart that you know the world only through touch and sound." Her hand reached out, its gnarled warmth finding my arm. "But you see in your own way, don't you? With your sharp mind."
I allowed a soft, almost imperceptible sigh to escape me. "I do," I conceded, a subtle manipulation of her sympathy. "But sometimes… sometimes I feel things others don't. Like the air shifting, or sounds from far away. Like… a heartbeat in the ground itself."
Elara's grip on my arm tightened, then released quickly. I felt the subtle shift in her posture, a stiffening. "Lyra, we spoke of this," she said, her voice strained. "It's best not to dwell on such fancies. The world is as it is, and we live simply."
"But if there are other ways to feel the world," I pressed, keeping my voice gentle, almost childlike, "then perhaps there are other things to see? Other ways to… to understand?"
She coughed, a dry, rattling sound that seemed to hold back more than just phlegm. "The only understanding we need is what the Fates grant us, child. And the wisdom of our elders. That is enough."
"Who are these elders, Elara?" I asked, pivoting slightly. "You speak of Master Alderon. Is he the only one who understands these… these things?"
Elara was silent for a long moment. I could practically feel her hesitation, the internal debate. "Master Alderon is the spirit guide," she finally said, her voice flat, as if reciting a well-worn truth. "He interprets the signs, he guides the village in matters of spirit. He is very old. Very wise."
"And are there others like him?" I probed, thinking of the quiet power I had sensed. "Others who can feel the earth's song, as I did?"
A sharper cough this time, more insistent. "No, Lyra," she said, her voice firm, leaving no room for further discussion. "Only Master Alderon is blessed with such gifts in Noldor. And his gifts are for the village, for the common good. Not for… for curiosity."
Her words were a stark line drawn in the sand. My inquiries into the nature of this subtle power and its practitioners were hitting a wall. She was either genuinely ignorant beyond a certain point, or deliberately withholding. Given her fear, I suspected the latter. This "old magic" and Master Alderon were clearly intertwined with the village's deepest secrets, secrets Elara was sworn to protect.
The rhythmic clack of the loom resumed, a little faster now, as if she sought refuge in the familiar motion. I mirrored her, my hands flying across the warp and weft, Lyra's body performing its learned task flawlessly. But my mind was already shifting, assessing. If direct questions yielded only evasions, then I would have to observe. I would have to listen. I would have to find a way to experience Noldor beyond the confines of this cottage, and beyond the limited perception of this blind vessel.
My gaze, though unseeing, seemed to pierce the humble walls. I imagined the village outside, its mundane routines, its hidden corners. Somewhere within its dusty paths, or perhaps just beyond its immediate borders, lay the source of that quiet power. And somewhere, perhaps at the heart of it all, was Master Alderon, a key figure in this unfolding human drama.