The Tapestries by Dawn Felagund

Chapter 10

“What did you learn from this, Curufinwë?” Aulë used to ask me, especially when I made grievous mistakes that ruined my projects and left me staring frustrated at the mess lying between my two treacherous hands that had not done my mind’s bidding, eyes blinking and mind already denying the sting of tears. He’d believed that there was more to learn from mistakes than successes, and I’d proclaimed him a fool—in my secret thoughts and later to Nerdanel, who kept my secrets even as her mouth hardened to a disapproving line—though mainly because I liked success more than failure. I created success from all sorts of materials including—I saw now—the fabric of deception.

How to unravel a life of mistakes? There came a point of every project, said Aulë—the nadir, he called it—when it was futile to continue. It took less effort to begin again than to remedy all that had been done wrong. “You must learn to know the nadir,” he said, “and trust in it. Trust in your judgment. Know that you now possess the knowledge to begin again and be successful.”

Only, in life, there was no beginning again. Even as time had eluded me here in the halls of Mandos, I was suddenly aware of it: a dull trudging feeling like a heartbeat at rest or feet crossing banal territory to engage in some unexciting task. I wondered not for the first time what year it was, what day. What time. I wondered what each of my children was doing in that exact moment. What my wife was doing. I imagined her boiling rice in a kitchen in Alqualondë and scooping it onto a plate and eating it alone. I felt sad at that and did not know why.

“What did you learn from this, Fëanáro?” That was not Aulë but Námo. He was beside me again in his gray robes build of ash and smoke, the color of grief, his glass-green eyes as bright as the marbles that my sons would send rolling across the flagstones, dazzling in Laurelin’s light.

We walked together, Námo and I, through the rose garden that he’d once said my mother had constructed to calm the restive spirits of the newly arrived. Was that still me? I still felt restive, though in the same anxious way as an animal seeking to escape a flame. Only the flame was not mine to escape; it was bound tight to me, like a skin. Only the garden was different now. No longer were there voluptuous, velvety blooms but rather buds still shut tightly like eyes, with just a peek, a promise of color between their lids. The rosebushes obstructed the path before us and behind us but tore apart to let us pass: the chitinous sound of thorns scraping each other as they parted, reminding me of iguana claws on the patio in Tirion when I flipped open the lamp each night.

But this place, I suppose, is what I make of it.

Do you want me to admit that I am a fool? To rescind my pride? I will do neither.

Námo’s lips didn’t quite smile but pinched together tighter, reminding me of how Nelyo used to laugh when he knew it was improper to do so. How I used to love to coax mirth from him in those times, no matter how impolite, just to see his eyes light with his smile. His eyes that were silver, lit by his first sight of Telperion upon the water, holding the lost Light of the Trees in the same way as had my Silmarils.

But when was the last time that I caught Nelyo’s face in my hand—any of my children’s faces—and looked into that light? Before the Darkening, I feared.

I thought again on his last words to me. What were his last words to me? Had I even seen the light in his eyes?

I am afraid, Atar. Afraid to be King without you. I thought that I wanted it, that I would do better by our people than you have. But I see now that I still lack so much, and that we’ll never be whole without you. I have not your courage. I would have turned away, and the Valaraukor would have come to Mithrim, to our people—

But for you. You have died for our people. Would I have the courage for that? I do not know.

This is my fault, but I will not fail our people again.

“History is different for every person,” said Námo. We had stopped. Some of the rosebuds were opening, only instead of blooms, there were butter-yellow moths unfurling their damp wings and taking tentative flight. “Just as a person looks different whether you stand to his front or rear or side, so history is different for each of us. Nelyo blames himself. You blame yourself. Are either of you to blame? Actually no. In Arda Marred, all is imperfect, and all wrongdoing is attributed to Melkor. Have you not wondered, Fëanáro, why you were not cast into the Everlasting Darkness? Because every last dark detail of your fate—even your Oath—was wrought long ago. Had Melkor been content with Arda as we made it, I would have nothing to tend in these halls but these roses and moths.

“You will heal here in spirit and arise anew to remedy that which is wrong. We shall all play a role in the world’s undoing, and so shall we all play a role in its remaking.”

The moths were dancing around me; I could see them on all sides, dashing themselves hungrily against me. They also had thoughts, and I felt them as thoughts of unbridled joy and wondered when had been the last time that sight of me had inspired joy in anyone. Even a butter-colored moth.

What will be my role? I asked, but Námo didn’t answer me. Not directly.

“Do you know what the other spirits see when they see you here, Fëanáro?” he asked, and without waiting for me to answer as the moths brushed me with their ghost-pale wings, fluttering with senseless joy that I had lost long ago, he answered himself:

“Light.”