Tapestries and Fate by ArizonaPoppy

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Chapter 1

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The trees flanking the entrance were just blooming as Finrod hurried up the steps two at a time. The clouds of their delicate pale blossoms obscured the plaque that he knew by heart reciting the museum’s benefactors and foundation date. The heavy wooden doors swung open at a touch, carefully hung on deceptively artistic hinges. He passed through the galleries, intent on his goal. Carved statues from Dorthonion turned to watch him hurry by; in the hall of flora and fauna of the Lossoth a monumental shaggy brown mumak in a diorama snaked its long snout after him to sniff the air as he passed. 

A left turn down the hall brought him to his goal, a neat nameplate announcing in gilt letters, “Andreth Saelind: Conservation & Folklore.” He knocked lightly on the door. 

“Enter,” a warm voice called. 

He wound through tables and bookcases until standing in the center of her workroom. Light streamed in through the windows as dust motes danced. There was a faint tinge of acetone in the air. Andreth had her back to him; there were a few new strands of gray in her bun, twisted neatly at the nape of her neck and secured with a net of crystal stars. When she turned to face him, her face lit up in a smile. 

“Finrod!” 

Andreth set her brush down and rushed forward to give him a hug. She buried her face in the superfine fabric of his suit and vest. Her form was hale and solid in his arms. Momentarily, Andreth remembered herself and pulled back, straightening the perfect knot of his tie as she went. 

“What brings you here?” she asked, putting distance between them again.  

Finrod perched on the edge of a table, one elegantly-clad leg over the other. “I heard about your grandfather Boron. Please accept my condolences. I have so many memories of our adventures and long talks into the evenings.” 

Andreth looked down and brushed some dust from her worn nubby cardigan. “Thank you,” she said, staring at the hem. “My family is long-lived, but not like you are.” 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the funeral, but with the way things are….” Finrod’s voice trailed off, and he gestured vaguely to the north. 

“I knew. I understood.” She smiled. “Would you like some tea?” 

In a few minutes they were both seated opposite each other across her desk sipping from a matched pair of sturdy glazed mugs, the warmth dispelling any lingering slight chill of the day.

“I always enjoyed speaking with your grandfather,” Finrod said, both hands wrapped around his mug.   

Andreth laughed. “It’s the thrill of the oddity. Do we amuse you with our cultural differences? My practical methods and philosophies and worldviews are greatly different from the history and facts and paradigms that are taught in your universities. I study folklore, and yet you study history.” She took a sip of tea. “And yet we are both threatened by the trouble in the north.”    

Finrod hopped up from his chair. “But enough about me.” He indicated the room around him. “Tell me what you’re working on today?”

Andreth led him to her station, where a long stretch of tapestry was spread on an easel, gently tipped up to promote accessibility but not enough to put strain on the fabric, dimly yellowed with age. Some sections were filled with activities and landscapes, while others were bare of characters. Finrod peered closely at it; some of the people dancing in a woodland to the tune of an unheard piper regarded him back. 

“What story does it tell?” 

Andreth leaned against the edge of the work surface, regarding it as she took a sip of her tea. There was a blot of pigment on her sleeve; probably gained through her distraction, as ever, unnoticed while she was caught up in her work.

“It’s a creation narrative. A history of their journey to their home lands, and the path to a Fountain of Youth.” 

Finrod’s eye followed the protagonists from one end to the other. A path wound between cloud-capped mountains as people followed it leading sure-footed pack animals with curly white and brown fur and heart-shaped noses. There was a gap in the formation, where a drover followed a length behind the animals. 

“I like that scene too,” Andreth murmured from behind him. “Here,” she urged. 

Finrod looked down. She picked up one of the pack animals from a table next to the easel. He did not quite catch the motions of her hands, but what had been flat was suddenly a small three-dimensional toy, perched in her cupped hands. “What is it?” he asked.

“An alpaca. They live in the mountains of the Marach.”

Reaching out with one finger, he stroked its back. The fur was soft to the touch; the animal made a noise halfway between a goose’s honk and the bleat of a sheep. 

Andreth carried it back to the tapestry, and gave it the smallest of gentle tosses. The alpaca sprang from her hands and landed in the tapestry, where it leaned down to munch on some grass embroidered in emerald thread. A wind stirred the tops of the meadow where it grazed; the clouds sped along over the mountains. “Better hurry, little one,” Andreth urged. “You’ll be left behind.” The alpaca gamboled back into formation with its train.    

The edge of the tapestry was missing; one ragged edge stabilized by a web of gauze and twill tape. Some figures recoiled in horror at something unseen, lost in the missing section, while others were drawn forward as if by a siren. “What happens here?” 

A knowing smile bloomed on Andreth’s lips, but her eyes were guarded. “I can’t tell you all of it, for it is not my knowledge to share.” At Finrod’s nod, she continued, her voice taking on the tone of a recitation: “The Fountain of Youth was found in a land many days’ travel from the Marach homelands, on a route known only by initiates of the sacred knowledge. For many generations they lived without the idea of death. But they were deceived by a terrible, nay, a beautiful, trickster. From there the path to the Fountain was lost.” 

It was the same story in every culture he had ever read: the frailty of humankind. But Finrod  knew as well as her that the Malevolence still existed, had not been vanquished. It was the same amongst his own people. Finrod hummed. “Just like the alpacas following their guide, death comes for us on two feet. We can only delay it, but it never loses the trail,” he mused finally.  

“This is why I choose my conservation work.” She gestured to the room around her. “When we die, all we have is our works to live after us. We can remember the person who originally made this scene. We can honor those who came before. There are those who speak of Hope in these troubled times.” As she gathered up the mugs to wash them in the sink, Andreth turned over her shoulder: “Hope is something I wish your brother had, Finrod.” 

Looking back at the dark cloud hanging over the figures in the chaotic portion of the tapestry, Finrod sighed. “These unsettled times don’t lend well to marriage. He is afraid of losing you.” 

Andreth laughed bitterly, a sharp sound even over the running of the faucet. “I would rather have a brief happiness than a long unhappiness.” 

“He still has your picture on his camp desk, the snapshot from our trip to Lake Aeluin. The one he took at dusk on our last evening.”

“And what am I left with as he pursues this enemy? Why must I suffer for his noble sacrifice as well?

“I’m going to join him soon.”

Andreth froze. Deliberately, cautiously, she set down the mugs on the drainboard. Turning back to Finrod, it seemed that her face had lost some of its color.   

“I came to stop by to see you once before….”

“Don’t say it,” she urged. 

The words halted in Finrod’s mouth; he closed his lips with a nod. 

Andreth put a finger to her temple and floated a glowing star from her hair. With a careful trace of her hand, she lowered the star into a small cube of glass, and sealed the container shut. Picking it up gently, Andreth handed it to Finrod. “Here, take this to my foolishly noble fiancé. Tell him to be careful with his life. Do not be reckless. No forlorn hopes.” 

Finrod turned the box in his hand; the star kept its point ever true to the pole. He placed it carefully in the pocket of his coat. “You know how he is,” he chuckled. “You may as well tell the salmon not to run each year or the caribou to cease their migrations.” 

Andreth nodded. 

He paused in the doorway to regard her one last time. Her back was straight, chin high, girding herself for the strength to carry on with her work, alone without even the small comfort that the reflected nearness of her love’s brother gave her. 

“Bless you, Andreth,” Finrod said, imprinting her on his heart, as he had no claim to a lover’s snapshot. “Eru keep you safe for my brother, and me.” 

 

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Chapter End Notes

Special thanks to my beta, Independence1776! Any remaining mistakes are my own.