Throughout that rainy winter Faramir watched, fascinated, as Eowyn wielded needle and thread as skillfully as ever she had handled her sword.
“I did not spend all my time in the practice-yards,” she laughed. “Come evening, my nurse would sit on me to make me take up my needlecraft. I fought long, but finally surrendered, and now am glad of the skill.” She held up her handiwork, a small jacket as exquisite and intricate as a spider’s web.
A tapestry, Faramir thought. Each day, some new knowledge; a new thread added. We weave our lives together, a work in progress.
A drabble for Branwyn, who expressed an interest in weaving, and tapestry, and spiders' webs. I like to think of Eowyn as being a mistress of 'traditional" womanly arts, as well as the feminist icon of my pre-feminist youth.