Pants for the Pantless by Elrond's Library  

Pants for the Pantless

Míriel sat at the ornate desk Finwë had made for her, the wood polished and glowing under the light of the west-facing window of her studio. She rifled through the drawers, pulling tools from their neat placement and piling them haphazardly, her mind buzzing with the possibilities for a new style of garment. She had been stopped on her way back to the construction site she called her home, finally stationary after ages and ages of wandering west, ever west, following the promise of the Light. Her people were quickly adapting to the new environment, using the horses the Valar had tamed to haul stone and people from place to place. They had never seen horses in Beleriand, and such beasts were quickly becoming an indispensable tool as they established themselves in this new land. 

So she had been stopped, the keepers of the beasts complaining of sores on their thighs after hours perched on horseback, and wouldn’t the Broidress, the innovator of hide and fabric and needle and thread and bobbin, wouldn’t she help them design something to keep their legs from chafing?

Mat, small knife, thick paper, and quill were quickly set out, her mind holding the geometries necessary steady as she reached for the small mannequin that perched in the corner. No more than a forearm’s length tall, it could hold a pose, the joints held together with wire. She traced the shape against the mannequin’s hip, smiling in satisfaction. This was going to work, hopefully.

She turned her attention to the paper, heavy and low quality, bumpy and irregular in thickness and color. It would not do to waste good paper on what amounted to an experiment, much less fabric, which took her weavers so much more time than would be worth it for this. She dipped her quill in the ornate inkwell that stayed out on her desk, admiring the way the curls caught the light, the way the shells shimmered. Olwë had commissioned it for her not long after they started building, saying a beautiful woman like her should be surrounded by beauty to compliment her. She rolled her eyes at the memory; she was more practical than that. But it was a beautiful inkwell. 

Ink flowed from quill to paper, sketching out what she hoped would suffice to cover one full leg, and half a hip. When she was satisfied, she began cutting. The thick mat of felted fur protected the table as her knife extracted the shape. She pulled the mannequin closer, folding and shaping the paper around the wooden form. It wasn’t quite right, too much material between the legs, and not enough to cover one’s rear. 

Another shape was quickly traced, changes accounted for, cut out, and folded. Again, not quite right, so another, and another. A small pile of discarded, unsatisfactory attempts slowly grew.

Míriel heard Finwë enter behind her, but did not greet him. He sat beside her, watching silently as she wrestled with ink and paper, head pillowed in his arms. He knew better to interrupt, and she knew he liked watching her work. It was in the softness of his eyes.

“I think I’m going to call them pants,” she finally said, happy with the shape. 

“And what are they for?” He sounded genuinely curious. 

She shrugged, a satisfied grin growing on her face. “They’re clothes, dummy. They cover bodies.”

“And who will wear them?”

“Everyone.”

Chapter End Notes

Horses are not native to Beleriand, I've decided. The Dark Rider is on an alpaca.