The Wisdom of Sorrow
The halls of Mandos were silent as Alcaron stepped beyond the veils of shadowed fate, leaving behind the weight of Námo's words. The air itself felt different now, lighter yet filled with something unseen—a presence that wove through every stone, every thread of existence. This was not the stillness of death, nor the heavy burden of judgment. No, this was something else entirely.
It was memory.
He felt it before he saw her.
Vairë, the Weaver of Time, stood before an endless loom, her hands in constant motion, threads of light and shadow twisting through her fingers. The strands shimmered as they took shape upon the great tapestry that covered the walls of her domain, a living record of all that had been and all that would ever be.
She did not look up at first, continuing her work as if Alcaron's presence had already been accounted for, his steps preordained, woven into the grand design. Only when he took a step closer did she finally raise her head, her gaze like the deep waters of an untouched lake, still and knowing.
"You have come, as you were meant to," she said, her voice neither soft nor hard but something beyond, like the whisper of time itself.
Alcaron inclined his head. "I come to learn, Lady Vairë."
She studied him for a moment before nodding. With a gesture, she beckoned him forward, and as he stepped closer, the air around the tapestry shifted. Threads shimmered and realigned, revealing scenes that had already been written into history.
"Here, the world is woven," Vairë said, her fingers never ceasing their work. "Every action, every choice, every sorrow and triumph is recorded. Nothing is lost."
Alcaron's eyes were drawn to the strands before him, golden threads intertwining with deep crimson and silver, flowing into a vast design beyond comprehension. And then—suddenly—he saw.
It was no longer a tapestry.
It was Arda itself.
Before his eyes, the beginning unfolded. He saw the Ainur as they were before the world was made, their voices raised in the Song of Creation. The melodies swirled together, and from them, light and form were born. He saw Manwë's soaring winds, Ulmo's deep waters, Aulë's hands shaping the bones of the earth.
And he saw the discord.
Melkor's voice, once as bright as the others, twisted into something dark. A thread of shadow wove itself into the Song, resisting the harmony of the others. Where they built, he sought to break. Where they nurtured, he sought to corrupt.
The tapestry shifted again.
Now he saw the coming of the Firstborn—the Elves waking under the starlit sky of Cuiviénen. He saw their wonder, their beauty, their innocence. But even then, there were shadows in the distance. Dark things moving in secret, hidden from the sight of their kin.
And then—horror.
Alcaron recoiled as the threads darkened. He saw the first of his people taken, stolen from the light before they even knew what light was. The forms of his kin twisted, broken, reshaped into mockeries of themselves—Melkor's foul experiments, his first attempt to create life where only Ilúvatar could do so. He saw the birth of the creatures that would one day be known as Orcs, and the knowledge of their origin filled him with revulsion.
"These things were known to Mandos," Vairë said quietly, "but they were not yet spoken to your kind. You see now the price of discord."
Alcaron's fists clenched. "Why was nothing done?" he asked, his voice edged with fury. "Why did the Valar not come sooner?"
Vairë's hands did not still, but her gaze remained calm. "Because the Song was sung. Because free will is woven into the threads of time. Because even we cannot always act as we wish."
The tapestry shifted once more.
He saw the Sundering of the Teleri, the great choice that split the Elves into their many kindreds—the Vanyar who followed Ingwë, the Noldor who remained with Finwë, the Teleri who lingered by the waters, and those who would be lost to the shadows of Endórë.
Each decision, each hesitation, each doubt—it was all here, recorded in silk and silver.
Alcaron reached out, his fingers barely brushing the threads. He felt it then. The weight of the past, the echoes of voices long silenced. They had all thought themselves choosing freely, yet here it was, woven into place, inevitable in hindsight.
His heart ached.
"You begin to understand," Vairë murmured.
Alcaron turned to her, his mind heavy with all he had seen. "Is there no escaping what is woven?" he asked. "Are we all bound to a fate that cannot be altered?"
Vairë paused for the first time, considering him. "The past cannot be changed, Alcaron. That is its nature. It is firm, unyielding, already sung into the Great Music. But the future…" She let a new thread slip between her fingers, a fresh strand of silver woven into the grand design. "The future is yet to be shaped."
Alcaron stared at the tapestry, at the lines of history stretching far beyond his sight. The weight of what he had seen pressed upon him, but he knew now that it was not meant to burden him alone. It was a truth he must carry, a lesson that would guide his steps in days yet to come.
He exhaled slowly. "Then I will learn."
Vairë nodded approvingly. "Then watch, Alcaron. Watch, and remember. For what you see here will shape your path more than you know."
Alcaron did not sleep in the halls of Vairë and Namo. There was no need for rest, not in a place where time was not measured in sun or moon, where the past and the future wove together in strands of light and shadow. Yet, though his body did not tire, his mind felt weighted with all he had seen.
The tapestry of Arda surrounded him, vast and endless, its shifting threads whispering the stories of ages past. He had learned that history could not be undone, that the past was firm as stone. But what of the future? Could he, like Vairë, glimpse what had not yet come to pass?
It was this question that lingered in his mind when Vairë turned to him.
"You wonder if you can see ahead," she said, her voice smooth as woven silk. "You wonder if the gift of foresight that Námo gave you will show you what is to come, just as the past is shown in these threads."
Alcaron hesitated, then nodded. "I do."
Vairë gestured to the great loom before her, its patterns ever-changing. "The past is written, Alcaron. It is woven into the fabric of Arda, and here, we can read it as one reads the lines of a book. But the future…" She paused, selecting a thread from the loom's edge, a strand of deep silver that pulsed faintly. "The future is less certain."
She placed the thread in his hands. The moment his fingers touched it, his vision blurred.
And then he saw.
It was not like Vairë's sight, nor like the visions of the Valar. It came in flashes, disjointed and urgent, striking him like a blade of cold fire.
He saw a man. No—an Elf. The light of Aman burned in his spirit, but there was something else there, something fierce and unrelenting. His face was familiar, as though Alcaron had seen him before, yet he knew he had not, than he realized it was his own brother.
Then came others. More faces, strong and grim, standing before a great fire, their hands raised in oath.
An oath of vengeance.
Their voices rang out, hard as steel, their words binding, and Alcaron knew that even the might of the Valar could not undo what they had sworn.
He saw battle—flames, swords clashing, blood upon the earth. He saw the same faces, their eyes burning with determination, then twisting in agony as death claimed them. One by one, they fell, and still, their voices echoed in his mind.
The vision faded, and Alcaron gasped, staggering back. His hands trembled, the thread slipping from his grasp.
He turned to Vairë, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Is this… fixed?"
For the first time, Vairë paused in her weaving. "Only Ilúvatar knows," she said quietly. "What you saw may come to pass. Or it may not. Some moments are firm in the pattern of Arda, but others… others shift."
Alcaron swallowed. "But if they see this future, will they not try to change it?"
Vairë's expression remained steady. "Many have tried to alter their fate, believing they could escape doom. In doing so, they only ensured it."
The weight of her words settled upon him, deep and heavy. He had seen something terrible, something that had not yet come to pass. But what could he do with such knowledge? If he warned them, would he merely bring about their end?
Or had the vision been shown to him so that he might find another path?
He did not know. Not yet.
Vairë allowed him time to collect himself before leading him deeper into her halls. Here, the walls were lined with tapestries unlike the others. They did not shimmer with the images of history but pulsed softly, as though alive.
"These," Vairë explained, "are more than mere records. They are memories, woven so that they may be passed down through the ages."
She reached for one, her fingers grazing the threads. At once, the air around them shifted, and Alcaron felt himself drawn into the tapestry's depths.
He stood on the shores of Aman, the sea stretching endlessly before him. The wind carried the laughter of the Teleri, the scent of salt, the sound of waves crashing upon white sands. It was as if he were there, living the memory as though it were his own.
Then the vision faded, and he was once again in Vairë's halls.
She turned to him. "The knowledge of the past must be preserved, not just in words, but in feeling. That is the purpose of these threads. A book may fade. A song may be forgotten. But woven memory endures."
Alcaron nodded slowly. He understood.
And so she taught him.
She showed him how to take the essence of a moment and bind it into thread, to weave not just knowledge, but the weight of that knowledge. He learned to capture the sorrow of a farewell, the joy of a reunion, the terror of battle, and the quiet peace of a starlit night.
He wove his own memories—his first lessons in Lórien, his time in Mandos, his mother's voice in the halls of the dead.
And though the work was slow, he knew it was important.
One day, long after he was gone, others would look upon his weavings and see what he had seen. They would feel what he had felt.
And perhaps, they would understand.
As he completed his first true tapestry, Vairë stepped beside him. "You are learning well," she said.
Alcaron looked at his work—scenes of Aman, of the past he had glimpsed, and the vision that still haunted him. "But what of the future?" he asked. "What if I weave something that has not yet come to pass?"
Vairë's gaze was steady. "Then you must be careful. Weaving a vision into thread does not make it truth. And yet, it may become so if others see it and believe it cannot be changed."
He thought of his vision—of the oath, of death. If he wove it, would it seal their fate? Or would it serve as a warning?
He did not yet know the answer.
But he knew one thing—he had more to learn.
And so, with a quiet nod, he turned back to the loom and continued his work.
Alcaron had spent years in the halls of Vairë, weaving memories into thread, learning the weight of time and the echoes of history. He had seen glimpses of the past and the future, understood how choices wove themselves into the great Song of Arda. But something still eluded him—a lesson he could not grasp in the woven threads or the visions granted to him.
And so, he turned to the last of the Valar who frequented Mandos: Nienna, the Lady of Mercy and Mourning.
She did not dwell in the Halls of the Dead, yet she often came there, her presence like a whisper of rain upon dry earth. Unlike Estë, who brought rest and healing to the body, Nienna's wisdom lay in sorrow—grief not as an end, but as a path to strength.
Alcaron found her standing upon the threshold of Mandos, gazing westward toward the Sea. The wind carried the scent of salt and the distant song of waves, and her grey raiment billowed around her like the mist of the fading rain.
She did not turn to face him when she spoke. "You have learned much, Alcaron. But you have not yet learned the weight of sorrow."
He hesitated. "I have seen grief. I have walked the halls of Mandos. I have spoken to the dead and heard their longing."
Nienna turned then, her eyes deep and ancient, filled with a sorrow that was vast yet not crushing. "To see grief is not to understand it," she said. "Come, Alcaron. There is more to know."
She led him away from the gates of Mandos, into the quiet lands where no song was sung, where the sky was ever grey and the wind carried only whispers. It was here that she taught him.
She showed him the first sorrow of the Elves—the first death among their kind, when the Eldar did not yet know what it meant to perish. Alcaron saw them mourning, confused and afraid, calling out to the stars for answers.
He saw the grief of the Valar when they beheld the destruction that Melkor had wrought, the pain that Yavanna bore when her beloved trees were slain, the sorrow of Manwë as he watched the Children of Ilúvatar suffer.
He saw the suffering of the Silvan elves, their lives fighting against Melkors darkness, their struggles brief yet filled with meaning.
And through it all, he wept.
His tears fell freely, but Nienna did not comfort him as one soothes a child. She did not tell him to stop, nor did she tell him that grief would pass. Instead, she wept with him.
For a long time, there was no sound but their quiet mourning.
At last, Nienna spoke. "You feel sorrow, yet you do not flee from it."
Alcaron took a shuddering breath. "I do not wish to."
"Good," she said. "Many fear sorrow, believing it a weakness. But it is not weakness to grieve. It is not folly to weep for what has been lost. To mourn is to love, and to love is to have strength."
Alcaron closed his eyes, letting the weight of her words settle within him. He had always thought of sorrow as something to endure, something to push through until it faded. But he saw now that it was not so.
Sorrow was a lesson, a guide.
Grief did not diminish him. It shaped him.
As the days passed, Nienna showed him more. She led him through the shadows of history, through wars and ruin, through betrayals and bitter ends. And yet, through it all, there was always something that remained.
Hope.
Even in the darkest moments, when all seemed lost, there was still something to fight for.
"The difference between grief and despair," Nienna said one evening, as they stood upon the cliffs overlooking the western seas, "is this: grief teaches. Despair consumes."
Alcaron frowned. "But how do we resist despair when all seems hopeless?"
Nienna smiled faintly. "By remembering that nothing is truly lost."
She gestured to the waves below, the endless cycle of the sea. "All things change, Alcaron. Kingdoms rise and fall. The stars shift. Even we, the Valar, do not remain untouched by time. But though things may end, their memory endures. Their meaning does not fade."
Alcaron thought of the tapestries of Vairë, of the voices he had heard in Mandos, of the love and sorrow woven into the very fabric of Arda.
Despair came when one believed that all was for nothing. But it was not so.
Nothing was for nothing.
At last, the day came when Nienna stood before him, her gaze searching his. "You have learned all I can teach you, Alcaron."
He bowed his head. "I will carry your words."
She placed a hand upon his shoulder. "More than that, you will carry the wisdom of sorrow within you. Even when you leave this place, you will think upon what I have told you. And one day, when you must make a choice, you will remember this moment."
Alcaron felt the weight of her words, as heavy as fate itself.
And then, with a quiet nod, he turned and walked away.
He had spent years learning from Námo, from Vairë, from Nienna.
He had seen fate, history, and grief.
And though his lessons had ended, he knew his true path was only beginning.