Cobwebs - A drabble-ish Gwindor ficlet
A/N: Looking over an old file I came across this ficlet; I hope you enjoy it. Also: (Me = Tolkien) = Not True. Therfore Gwindor = Not My Property
So I replace the jewel in the tray
And laughingly pretend I'm far too poor.
Nothing I give, nothing I do or say,
Nothing I am will make you love me more.
--James Fenton, 'Nothing'
Finduilas once told me that I was very logical. I don't believe that's true, any longer.
That was when we were quite young, past the easy friendship of childhood and barely beyond the awkwardness what comes after. During that time, we had stopped holding hands. Now we'd begun again.
We were talking about her nickname, Faelivrin. She said being compared to a lake was rather odd. I replied that it made sense, really; there was a resemblance in the sunshine.
Hair and water? she asked, smiling.
They're both golden, I said. And beautiful.
She laughed, and touched my shoulder. Very logical, Gwindor.
Oh, I am not.
Were I logical, I would have despaired long ago, and I would not feel the pain of it now.
I would not have lost myself in the battle; I would not have believed that my desperate fury, pounding heartsick and exhausted and screaming upon the doors of Angband would have made any difference at all. I would not have wept upon that charge only for Gelmir, not this battle which would ruin our people. I would not have added to our defeat.
And the depths of Angband. I could have despaired there. But I did not. I remembered her, instead.
I could have despaired when no one at home knew me.
But only when she turned away.
I had believed better of her. If I were wise, I could have turned as well, and thought oh, well, she doesn't care now, I'll not concern myself any longer, I will forget that only the thought of her kept me alive, I will forget that once she loved me...I could try to think of how it would be to stay with someone so easily swayed through all eternity, instead of losing her now.
I could have told myself that she was not worth the pain; but that I can't quite manage.
There's an insubstantial cobweb holding me together. I think of silver threads bright with dew, and know that my will cannot last much longer. Soon the filaments will break and float gently down, and my time here will be over.
It was the memory of her before, you see. And hope, perhaps. But now only my thoughts can truly tie me here - the shining cobweb of times past, feelings that do not rest in peace - it will come down soon enough.