rohanson: (Strands)
[personal profile] rohanson
This is referred to at the end of this previous chat.

18th November 3014 Third Age
Meduseld, Edoras, Rohan

I sit by the hearth, tools laid out on the table in front of me, and a piece of leather long enough to wrap round a sturdy wrist pinned to a board by the two eyelet holes in each end. A leather thong lies near my tools, ready to slip through the eyelets when it is finished. There is a design marked on it, graceful and unstructured, based on the intricate knotwork that is so much a part of our lives, adorning as it does everything from the pillars in the Golden Hall to our armour. In the centre is a horse’s head, mane flowing, entwining with the rest of the pattern. Picking up a fine bladed knife, I set the point against the surface and begin to cut, taking care to penetrate no deeper than the grain of the leather.

It had not been hard to decide what I wanted to carve into the hide; in fact, it could not have been anything else. One whorl represents the bond we have shared all our lives, the blood tie that has bound us together from the second of Mer’s birth. The second is the love we now share, and the third whorl, snaking through the others represents the thread that runs through time and space, against all odds and brings us together in Wellington.

I want him to have something that will remind him every time he looks at it or touches it that I am with him, no matter how much distance there seems to be between us, something that had great meaning to me, to us, yet would not look out of place when seen by others. Wristbands with knotwork and horses carved into them are not uncommon amongst a people whose art revolves around those two things.

The knife in my hand slices through each dip and curve, and I lose myself in the work, not realising how warm I have become sitting this close to the fire until sweat drips from my brow onto the leather, and I curse softly, wiping it away with a soft cloth. Setting the knife down I strip off my shirt and pick up the thong to tie my hair back with. Before going back to it, I stretch, rolling my shoulders and working out the stiffness of sitting hunched over the table. But it is a labour of love, and I return to it gladly.

A while later, the carving and bevelling complete, I open three small pots of dye and carefully paint over part of the background, using a paler shade for some of the knotwork, and a darker one to add shadowing. I look at the finished article and nod with satisfaction. Then I tidy away my tools and pull on a clean shirt, shaking my hair free of its bond. It is time to join my father in the hall, and I have a raging thirst that needs to be quenched, but first I lay the wristband in a safe place on a high shelf while it dries.

Before dawn the next morning, I thread the thongs in place and wrap the band in suede, slipping out of my room and quietly making my way to the hiding place. It takes a moment to find the right carving on the pillar, but eventually it slips open and I place the packet into the space and replace the cover. It becomes invisible to all but those who know it is there and I hope with all my heart it remains that way for four years, until he finds it.

The finished wristband is similar to this one
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