17. In Her Garden

"Macalaurë, would you please stop fidgeting for a few more minutes".

"Yes, ammë", I replied automatically, even though inside I was pretty sure I was actually staying still as best I could. Mind you, it is still hard to stay motionless in a pose that would, in actuality, be transient. Especially while holding a guitar aloft in a position mimicking the one in which I would be playing, as much as would be humanly (or elf-ly) possible.

I was not about to start an argument, though – not after everything that had gone down between us, or this utterly unexpected reunion culminating (after hours of talking, what else?) in an even more surprising proposition... Of having Nerdanel draw me in my "hard rock" guise – guitar, leather jacket, the whole nine yards – and then possibly mould my image in clay or carve it in stone. And there I was.

As she turned away from me towards the easel again to add the next salvo of pencil strokes, I surreptitiously flexed my leg that had become more than a little stiff, at the same time turning my eyes around (careful so as to avoid shifting my head even slightly). For a moment, my gaze met Calawen's, as she chuckled and rolled her eyes, then returned to simply watching me pose, while sitting in a comfortable chair set to the far side of Nerdanel's spacious, well lit studio.

As my mother was working, the slight frown of concentration returning to her face, I was able to subtly study her – thankfully, as per her artistic vision, I was to face her instead of turning away and looking elsewhere. The passage of untold years has not aged her so much that she would be made a crone – that was unheard of among our race – yet her face was bearing the signs of long and hard life more so than that of any other elf of either gender I've ever seen (save, possibly, Cirdan). As it was wont to, my mind drifted off towards a peripherally related matter; while I was not exactly a diehard purveyor of science, I remembered taking note of how different Quendi would grow up similarly, but then outwardly stop ageing at seemingly random Mannish equivalents of yearmarks. Unmarried, childless maidens – particularly those I could only call lesbians for I was not aware of a Quenya equivalent, giving little heed to the phenomenon – would especially remain youthful in their appearance. On the other side of the gamut, Nerdanel has far surpassed any other Elven lady, having borne seven sons – though the much maligned Indis was somewhat close, being the mother of four, and so were Eärwen and Anairë among the famous Finwëan dames. But they say not without justification – and especially so in the case of Elvendom – that a mother doth pass a part of her soul's flame to her child when he or she is born (does the father, and if not, why this universal injustice, my wandering mind inquired vainly in the following instant). This was Míriel's undoing, once, but for Nerdanel to survive and remain full of life for the aeons to come, she really had to have been uniquely blessed with this precious fire. Fool thrice was my father, all my love and respect for him notwithstanding, to have misused and ultimately squandered the trust and love bestowed upon him by this special woman!

Ah, but Fëanáro was so out of reach, and thinking of him only made me feel down, ridden with an unspeakable sense of loss. Instead, I chose to watch my mother's face, so familiar yet now so distant, as she kept working, her countenance calm, collected and stern – though not with any hard feeling, but rather with the concentration of hard work. I mentally traced the lines and wrinkles formed at the corners of her eyes, slightly squinting in workmanlike focus as she kept switching between the canvas before her and my figure. Before long, I felt my attention and affection start to give rise to the first notes of a song that – I knew it – would be dedicated to her, as the contours of her face and the flow of lines upon her skin were starting to turn into the weave of a simple, yet profound melody.

Just as it happened, she turned again to glance at me, and when our eyes met, a spark of two creators recognizing each other – even though they were totally different in their pursuits and manners of expression – passed between us for the briefest of moments. In that instant, I was made sure that whatever our past disagreements – to put it very mildly – have been, we would never be torn asunder and made adversaries again.

The sensation was fleeting, yet it meant the world for me. Just as it ended – yet remained etched in my mind for all posterity – Nerdanel nodded thoughtfully, then turned back to the canvas I could not see, and looked it all over with the wry, critical expression of a creator assessing their latest work. A few measured strokes of her pencil later, she nodded again, then turned away from the easel and looked at me with a smirk on her lips.

"That'll do".

I learned later that such was, generally, her regard for her art – critical and bordering on self-deprecating; again a far cry from father's attitude that, as history has taught us, all too often crossed into vanity... even thralldom to his own creations. And while I had taken some of her lessons – unspoken more often than not – to heart before my departure, I knew then that I would have more to learn from her from then on, despite my own age and experience – a, so to say, unique one. And maybe there were things she could learn from me as well, I thought, as a course of action has swiftly coalesced in my mind.

As it was, we had many things to talk about and to show each other. I gave her a large picture book on Earth's art to study (I had an almost inexhaustible collection of images on my laptop, but decided that the printed treatise would be more accessible to her). She lingered long on Renaissance painting and sculpture, nodding now and then to her own thoughts, and I could just about see her creative ideas flowing in a myriad of directions all at once. She took a deep sip from the cup of hot herbal tea she had on the desk – subtly turning away, I noticed, to absolutely avoid spilling the drink on the pages in case of some mishap – and shifted to take a good look at me.

"I find it all fascinating, and would like to learn more. It's all wonderfully alien, and to think that my own son would be the one to open up this world to us!"

Suddenly, a shadow passed upon her face inexplicably; inexplicably to anyone but me, because I was sure we were thinking of the same thing. Persons, to be precise.

"Have you heard anything of-", I began in a small voice, then stuttered, not sure how to proceed without pronouncing the name – the names – that still weighed heavily on my conscience, as apparently they did on hers.

"No, and believe me, I have asked. Far and wide", she sighed, a deep vertical wrinkle creasing the skin between her brows. "Though I have to admit, I've been doing that less and less as the yéni went on and on. It's a wall of stone, Macalaurë, and I cannot breach it no matter how many times I throw myself at it".

She chuckled ruefully, then shook her head in a display of renewed strength.

"At least I know they still exist, and will do so until the End. Accepting the cessation of their existence would have been far harder. But I still find the injustice unpalatable".

"Injustice?.." I wondered, surprised at a measure of theomachic defiance found in this word... and momentarily fearful, as I have only just returned from serving punishment that, while far from severe, was ordained by the Valar. She evidently read this emotion in my eyes, too.

"Fear not, I would answer for this all on my own, if my sentiment is even a secret to them. While I believe – on the rational level, that is – that Fëanáro was beyond redeeming, my heart says otherwise. And very definitely, not all of my sons deserve this fate... even though I've heard, from the returned and the reborn, of some things – hideous things – that you have all perpetrated. Some more than the others, though. You, Macalaurë, have rescued – and raised – Elrond and Elros, have you not?"

"Before Elrond and Elros, there were Eluréd and Elurín", I whispered, very nearly knocking over my own cup of tea. The sack of Doriath was not something I would ever have forgotten and stopped mourning. At Sirion, we had an extenuating circumstance, however feeble; none whatsoever at Doriath.

"Yes, but that was not your actual doing. Not even Tyelkormo's, even though it was perpetrated to avenge his death. And Maitimo did repent right there and then. Dior and his kin have all been reincarnated, by the way, and a while ago already", Nerdanel intoned calmly, evidently bottling up her own emotions – even though recalling Tyelko and moreso Maitimo could not have been easy for her. Seeing me flinch again at the mention of my younger brother's name, she pursed her lips, drank some more and spoke again.

"I was not raising a murderer, a breaker of fealties, a coward, a stealer of brides. But I learned to live with the knowledge of something becoming broken along the way. I would have liked to attribute it all to the Oath, but I know better. And while I was, and will forever remain Fëanáro's wife, I am more than that – I have my own life. But you..." her voice dropped to but a whisper. "Your presence here gives me hope that everything will be set right in the end. And before the true End, actually".

Note: the chapter name is from a song by Elusive (from the Locked Doors, Drinks and Funerals album, 2007)