Makamu asked for a drabble about Éowyn and Arwen.
The weaver's hands tell time: they've spun hope's measure — thirty-eight years in black and silver, and patience's thread— nine months each time. But a new hour plays upon the loom now.
Her hands — white and smooth— have not changed, and Arwen, worried, watches Éowyn's gnarled fingers ply their needle. "You needn't fear," Éowyn says, smiling.
"You're ill, Éowyn."
Hands go still, but the smile broadens, saddens. "For a little while."
"Not I, but Faramir, deserves your worry." Thin hands clasp Arwen's, squeezing. "Mark me, Evenstar, 'tis a gift, for there's no worse in life than to be left behind."