To Forgive by Dawn Felagund

The Spiderweb

Nolofinwë on why even the most grievous deeds must be forgiven. 700 words.

III. The Spiderweb--Nolofinwë
It is the first fair morning of spring, and while out riding, I found a spiderweb bejeweled in dew, stretched between two trees. Had I flinched a second later, a spider would have had the face of a Noldorin prince as its day's catch and a sleepless night rebuilding the trap. I dismount and consider it.

The spider is nowhere to be found. Palm against the middle of the web, I press the non-sticky strands. It bends to the force of my touch; springs back, unharmed. I flick a strand harder, and still, it does not break. I ponder this.

From behind me come hoofbeats. The rider dismounts. I know the sound of his footsteps. "Turukáno, have you ever considered the marvel of a spiderweb?" I muse when he is close enough to hear. "Each strand locks with and supports the others, withstanding even forces far greater than what a single strand should bear. But if one breaks"--with a prayer of forgiveness to the spider, I sunder a thread and watch the web sag, almost imperceptibly--"then the whole web is weakened."

I turn to him. His face is dark and grim as it has been since Elenwë died upon the Ice. His eyes--dry now and sharp as flint--are red-rimmed. The last days have been difficult. My closest son--the one most like me--has not spoken to speak to me since I sent his brother to seek our kinsmen on the opposite lakeshore a fortnight prior, offering pardon for allegiance. He has been hasty to turn his back against proffered explanations and apologies, but now, it seems, he seeks me.

I raise my eyebrows at him.

"I want you to know," he begins, "that I no longer hate you for what you have done."

He is in so many ways my son: in face, in temper, and in bluntness of speech. I feel my lips smile for the first time in days. "I am pleased," I say, "to hear it."

"I understand why you must seek"--he pauses and swallows, and his throat clicks--"him, despite all that he has done to us. I know that we are useless without him and his people." He speaks faster now, as though eager to get the words out. "I know also that the lies of Moringotto underlie even the treachery of Fëanáro; I know that our people and his share this greater enemy, and that Elenwë is just one life lost of many--" With that, his face crumples, and he turns away from me. I wish to go to him and put my hand on my shoulder. He is my child; his pain is mine. But he is like to me also and would never wish me to bear witness to his grief. And so I wait.

He blots his eyes on the sleeve of his tunic. His sleeves have grown tacky with tears in recent weeks. He turns back to me. "And so I will forgive you, even if you grant him pardon. I will stand at your side when our people are reunited, and I will say no word against it."

"I hear you," I answer, "and am grateful."

He nods. I could reach out and touch his tear-streaked face. I could embrace him as I have not done since he was a boy wont to come home hurt, first with scraped knees, then with a broken heart. But his face has gone hard again. I glance back to the web.

Suddenly, I regret deeply that strand that I have sundered, even if to prove a point.

Hoofbeats come again. I hear Turukáno awkwardly greet his brother. I wonder if forgiveness awaits him too, he who has never stopped loving the cousin who also betrayed us. There is an uncharacteristic strain to Findekáno's voice. I turn back.

"My son." He kisses me in greeting. His face is lined by cares, and sight of it spurs my heart in my chest. "Will my half-brother accept my pardon?" I suddenly fear his answer.

Behind me, a gust of wind tears another strand from the web.

"He cannot," says Findekáno, choosing his words with care. "He is dead."