In Bloom by Lilith

Chapter 1

At first, newly returned, brought home by Findekáno as if he were some strayed dog, he seldom left the house they shared.  He had also had to remind himself or allow himself to be reminded by Findekáno that it was the house they shared for it felt strange to call anything so ordinary and so perfect as a home his.   He wasn’t sure if he remembered a home, though he knew he had made one or more than one in Beleriand. The last he remembered was a rough clearing in the woods, few of people of their people left, Macalaurë still at his side, and so it was difficult, here, in the place he thought he would not be allowed to return, to call something home.

“You are afraid it will be taken from you.”  His nephew’s voice was gentle and low, with echoes of his brothers and, more strongly, of his father in it, but, though the timbre of his voice recalled that of Fëanaro, there was a compassion in it that he’d seldom heard from his father in those last, mad years.  

“Perhaps,” he answered.    They sat in the library of Findekáno’s home, of his home, delicate cups filled with a tisane between them.   

“I was too,” his nephew said, still gently.  “I thought ... I did not think I should be allowed to rest and to have the opportunity to continue.    I would say to begin again, but we remember and the others do as well, so it is more a continuation than a true beginning.”

“I do not deserve ...” he began.

“That is immaterial,” his nephew replied.  “I thought I did not deserve it either. I thought that a mistake had been made or some new torture awaited.   I wasted years waiting for the next punishment. Do not do that. We have time, but that does not mean you should spend it in fear and dread.”

“Still ...” he raised his eyes to meet his nephew’s.   He had avoided his nephew’s eyes for so many reasons. He had avoided them because they were his father’s in color and in brilliance.  They had avoided them because he feared that he might see blame in them, blame for the crossing, the losses, the decisions, the exile, the deaths, and, even, perhaps, for the deception and the betrayal that had awaited him when the war was over and the Silmarils lost.  Findekáno had told him a little, but that very little had been more than enough, of what happened to his nephew in the years after Morgoth fell.  But there was no accusation in those eyes and no sentence passed. They were brilliant still, but kind and gentle in a way his father’s had not been, not since Maitimo and his brothers had themselves been children. They held, too, a compassion and an understanding that was uniquely Tyelperinquar’s. 

“I know,” his nephew said.  “I do know, but still you are here, by merit or grace or forgiveness, you are here and you are loved.”

“Does it matter that I am unworthy?”

“I would disagree, but, worthy or not, you are loved and so very deeply, so perhaps begin with accepting that fact.”

“And then?”

“Perhaps bring something of yourself into this home you share?”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know,” his nephew said and then, pausing and considering for a moment, continued.  “Perhaps something living. It is spring, and even I could not help but notice that everything is in bloom.”