As Time Unrolls by Lyra

Sun VI

Reaching the 20th century, yay. Or not yay, because there's a lot of 20th century history that the Valar rather wouldn't have witnessed...

Sun VI.
Destroyers of Worlds

"I wonder if it is over now, at least," Nienna says. Strangely, her eyes are dry, and she looks angry rather than sad.

Námo shakes his head. "Soon, I believe," he says. "But not yet."
Nienna stares at him in disbelief, pointing at the tapestry Vairë is in the process of weaving; a desert landscape, and a hail of dust and fire, and rising from it, a cloud like a mushroom.
"But surely a threat like that –"
"A threat may suffice in a later, more civilised age," says Námo. "But in this time of barbarism, I fear that the mere threat will not do."
Nienna looks around. Vairë has taken great care to depict little moments of happiness, of joy, above all of peace – whenever she found the time and occasion - but the overwhelming majority of recent tapestries show destruction, cruelty, death in numbers and on a scale that once would have been, and forever should have remained, unimaginable.
"So it will get even worse before it can get better?"
"I am not certain that worse describes it, at this point," Námo says in his most gentle tone, "but we must be content that it will get better."

The Weaver, who has so far remained silence, gives a snort. "To think that there was a time when we were afraid of doing too much damage in fighting Melkor, for the Children's sake," she says.
Nienna, stroking the haggard, hopeless faces of the people in one of Vairë's tapestries, nods. "To think that we once believed that Alqualondë was as bad as they could get," she says.
Námo turns away.
"We could not have stopped them," he says. "Even if we were still in office, we could not have changed things. Even this, I'm afraid, is part of the music."
"Part of Melkor's discord, you mean."
"I hope that it is part of Melkor's discord, yes," Námo says. "But I do not know whether we can blame it all on Melkor."
The two Valier stare at him in shock, and then Nienna says, "But surely Father would not –" she does not continue, does not finish the sentence: Maybe she does not need to, or maybe she is afraid that if she does, Námo will contradict her.
Námo only looks at her with his deep, dark eyes, and says, "I do not know."

It is the most honest conversation Vairë remembers having in centuries, no, millennia, yet she cannot celebrate it. It is the first time in ages that she feels fond of her spouse, and feels pity for his burden, yet there is no room for joy in her heart just now. She is too shaken by the history of this most recent war, and too distressed by the mere thought of how it may end, if it ever ends. She looks at Námo, trying to find out whether he spoke the truth – whether he really does not know – or whether he merely keeps the truth to himself, as he so often did in the past.
He meets her eyes, and Vairë realises that the Judge is just as lost and scared as she feels.

"Well," Nienna says, her voice hitching, her eyes welling up again. "It will get better. Brighter days will come, and the Children will wake from this nightmare."
Námo agrees too quickly for Vairë's comfort. "Yes. Brighter days will come."

"For a little while," says Vairë.