Failure by Lingwiloke

Chapter 1

Late crossposst for B2MeM 2019 (this is the last one I promise); Prompts: Poetic Language B11: Simile, Movie Quotes I16: I am your father, Person vs. Self O64: fear of failure

It's not B2MeM if I don't work on something about those two. Maybe one day I'll finish all of it, too XD

Read Chapter 1

It has been three weeks since my father left Nargothrond for good, and I haven’t been down to the forges once.

I am not sure why I avoid the place that used to me my sanctuary, where I so often hid from the rest of the world, losing myself in the familiar scent of smoke and sweat, the clang of hammers on metal and the roar of the furnaces, the glow of embers in the gloom. I only know that ever since his departure, a strange reluctance overcomes me whenever I find myself on the steps down to this space we so often shared. Perhaps it is not too surprising, after all; but it certainly is irrational. I must not tarry any longer now. Work is calling. I take a deep breath, and step into the smithy to claim my usual spot.

I ignore my unease and set to work. I am restless, unsettled and yet bone-tired and listless at the same time. I start a hundred little things; I finish nothing. Unbidden, my father’s face appears before my eyes, scowling disapprovingly at my negligence. My hand slips and I only narrowly avoid ruining the piece I'm working on completely –

No, I cannot do this today.

I put my tools away carefully, making sure the workplace is impeccably clean when I leave. Father would have my head if -

I hurry to my office.

I try to rest a little, in the hope that it will calm my frazzled nerves, but I cannot sleep. I cannot seem to reconcile myself to being awake either, to being present. I feel like I am wasting my time. There is so much work to be done: There is so much begun and left unfinished. I could go through my letters, papers. There are contracts that need signing, clients to appease, requests to accept or politely deny. Deadlines to meet.

This is just words on paper. Simple.

…Except I cannot concentrate. It is all too much. Needs, wants, orders, decisions. Would you be so kind- Can you perhaps- Please consider- Find attached my proposal- I am writing with regards to my order of-

This one is addressed to my father. Will they want me to finish it? There are notes in his hand scribbled in the margins, a rough sketch for a design concept. The letters blur together in front of my eyes.

Why do you hesitate, son? I hear my father say, see his dry smile. Here it is, an opportunity to show your skill. A world of opportunities in this commission papers. You will show them what the grandson of Fëanáro is capable of, will you not?

Opportunities?

Opportunities to fail. Opportunities to fall.

I throw the papers down as if they could bite me, and then I flee.

I end up on the doorstep to your private study, slightly breathless and suddenly absurdly afraid you will sent me away then and there. After all, what have I to offer you now, except memories of doom and disaster?

Instead, I find myself curled up on your favourite reading chair, staring blankly at the threadbare carpet and wondering why you never bothered to order a replacement, until I remember it was your wife who wove it. I realise I should probably tell you why I am here, but I do not know how to explain the turmoil within my heart, and all that wants to spill from my lips are more meaningless apologies for the deeds of another.

You bring tea and put a blanket around my shoulders, and you do not ask.

I think of the guilt carving deeper and deeper lines in your face with each day Findaráto did not return. I think of your eyes in the darkness, that day when our fears were confirmed and we learned he never would, and both our worlds were turned upside down. I think of you on that day as you faced my father, your words fierce and determined yet your eyes full of resignation, a gaze that said too little, too late. 

You understand failure.

The tea is my favourite, with a hint of honey but no sugar. The fire is warm on my face, its light painting glowing patterns behind my eyelids when I close my eyes. Faintly, over the crackle of the flames, I hear the scratch of a quill on parchment, the clinking of crockery and rustle of robes when you take a sip of tea.

I am still a failure, but I am in good company, and for once it is easier not to care.