As Time Unrolls by Lyra

Darkness

Darkness.
Fighting Fire with Fire

"I wonder what will become of them," says Vairë.

"Nothing good, that is for certain," Námo says gruffly. "'Jealous'! 'Idle'! We should follow him, he said, that upstart-"

"We will need more red yarn," Vairë says to Míriel, who bows and uses the chance to escape Námo's ranting, thus missing a variety of interesting curses heaped upon her only son.

"I feel sorry for them," Vairë says when her husband seems to have calmed. "And it is not as if we aren't responsible, in a way."
Námo says nothing, pretending to be absorbed in the half-finished tapestry, a graphic depiction of recent events in Alqualondë. Vairë raises an eyebrow.
"You knew that this would happen, did you not?" Silence. "Perhaps not exactly this, but you knew that Melkor would sooner or later cause a desaster. Did you not?"
Still no reply.
Vairë nods. "You did. So why did you not speak up when Manwë pardoned him? You could have prevented all this." In the old days, she thinks, she would have been able to read the answer from his thoughts. These days, they all seem to lock their minds from her.
Námo looks around, almost furtively. Finally he speaks.

"Manwë would not have understood," he says. "Besides, you were right."

Vairë tilts her head. "In what respect?"

"Father did not want us to call the Eldar away from their inheritance. Something had to be done to lead them back."

"What does that – you did not speculate on this, did you?"

"It was not hard. They had to clash sooner or later. It was unavoidable."

Vairë looks at the tapestry, and for a moment her hand twitches towards the loom as if to tear it down. She balls her fist, letting her hand fall back down to her side.
"You are telling me that this-" she gestures at the textile docks of Alqualondë, the swan-ships, the warriors, the churning sea, all liberally interwoven with blood-red - "was unavoidable?"

"It had do be done," says Námo. "It has relieved us of a variety of problems."

"A variety of-" She cuts herself off. Even after all this time, embodiment still holds its surprises, Vairë discovers. Never before, for instance, has she balled her fists so tightly that her fingernails cut into her palms. Never before has she shaken with suppressed anger. Never before has her jaw hurt like that.

"Very well," she says through clenched teeth. "You can tell Irmo that he needs to grow more madder, then."