Forodwaith asked for a drabble about elven magic. This is the best I can do, in two hundred words, and with Arwen thrown in for good measure.
Thread uncoils and grows thin as the shuttle sends it out across the warp, gives thought a body. Arwen's voice rises, a thread of another sort, drawing all virtue from darkling strands:
Who am I?
I am that eye of understanding,
mastery that masters not,
I am eye of that revealing
seeing others I am taught
For I am eye that is an other:
making me, the thing is caught.
Thus is cloth formed not to fray nor fade, but that the least of what is made:
"Be grateful, daughter, that songs lie: we never catch the thing desired, but it escapes us, bears an otherness within it," Celebrķan had taught, when first she'd permitted Arwen to join her in the winter weaving.
"But why should the songs lie?" Arwen had asked, and Celebrķan, gazing critically upon their work, had answered:
"That we might learn that what we make, we must let go, for the sake of anotherelse we perish in madness, even as does the art of the Enemy."
For the sake of another. Hands tremble, but Arwen casts the shuttle through again:
Seven stars and stones and one white tree
In this making, his eye unmakes me.