Vairë's Tapestries by Fiondil

RECONCILIATION: Ascent

SUMMARY: Often the hard lessons are the truest, as one Elf finally learns when he is offered redemption.

WARNING: Rated PG for intensity of imagery and subject-matter.

****

"Open your eyes, child," Námo said softly.

It was always the same.

Sometimes he would open his eyes to find himself facing Námo, sometimes he would be facing away, but always they would be standing on the edge of one of Taniquetil’s high snow-clad precipices under a cold and uncaring star-bejeweled sky. Nothing in this ever changed, except minor details of no importance.

Always, whether facing in or out, he would open his eyes to fear, wondering how much longer his punishment would last. Always Námo leaned towards him and whispered, "This is not a punishment, child," then kissed him gently. On the brow. On the lips. On the cheek. It mattered not. Only one thing mattered...

With the kiss, Námo would whisper, "I love you," and then let him go.

And always he screamed as he fell, plummeting through the cloudscape below him until all sight was lost in the darkness.

He never seemed to ever reach the bottom....

"Open your eyes, child."

This time he was facing inward and gazed into Námo’s dark grey eyes. They were lit by an inner glow that spoke of an ancientness he could only begin to guess at. How many times had he stood in the Vala’s embrace waiting to fall? How many times had he heard the words Námo would speak? How many times had he felt Námo’s embrace loosen as he gently pushed him off the edge? He didn’t know. He didn’t care to know. He only knew he had to endure this, over and over again, because....

"This is not a punishment, child," Námo whispered, then kissed him on the lips as if he were kissing a lover. "I love you."

Before the arms let him go, this time he was able to stammer, "I... I’m sorry."

"I know," Námo said with a nod, then let him go.

This time he managed not to scream until he reached the clouds....

The next time — or maybe it was several times later, he was never sure — he managed to stammer, "I... I love you."

"I know," came the reply. It didn’t matter. Námo still opened his arms and let him go. HHe still fell, but he was weeping as he fell, not screaming. Darkness still took him in the end....

"Open your eyes, child." Not Námo this time. Vairë.

He knew this would happen eventually, though he always seemed to forget it. Everything would be the same, everything except the person holding him, and letting him go. Eventually, he knew now, he would be passed to each of the Valar. One by one they would kiss him... One by one they would tell him they loved him... One by one they would let him go... and he would continue to scream as he plummeted through cloudscapes in hopes of reaching a bottom he never could remember reaching.

He opened his eyes to see Vairë before him.

"I love you," he said quickly, hoping to stave off what he feared most, but the Valië merely shook her head, smiling sadly.

"It doesn’t work that way, child," she said unmoved by his protestations of love. "This is not a punishment."

He cowered in her embrace; wept as she kissed him lightly on the brow. "I love you, child."

Then with a single swift motion, she turned him around and gave him a gentle push into the void. The dark clouds below him came up swiftly and he plunged through them, screaming. Face down or face up, it mattered not. Minor details were unimportant....

"Open your eyes, child." Tulkas this time. For some reason falling into this Vala’s hands frightened him more than anything else. When he finally did open his eyes he saw the Vala smiling at him.

"You have always been too serious for your own good, child," Tulkas told him with a laugh and then to his utter horror he felt the Vala’s fingers searching his body, teasing it so that he started to squeal and then laugh as the Vala discovered his sensitive spots. Tulkas laughed along with him as he writhed in the Vala’s embrace, laughter forced out of him. He shrieked as the intensity of the tickling increased, shrieked like an elfling or like a lover in the throes of ecstasy and then he felt Tulkas lift him up high over his head.

"I love you," the Vala shouted and threw him into space. Shrieks of laughter turned into shrieks of terror. He always wished he had the time to be thoroughly sick....

Tulkas always forced him to laugh, always forced him into the pure abandonment of ecstasy, making him shriek like a virgin on her wedding night. Sometimes the Vala would throw him up into the air as if he were an elfling being tossed by a loving parent. Between his shrieks he would beg the Vala to stop, but Tulkas only laughed the harder.

"Foolish child," he would say. "This is not a punishment." Then he would kiss him on the lips, always the lips, tenderly and sweetly, as if he were indeed the Vala’s lover. Tulkas would then give him one more tickle that would set him shrieking again before tossing him out into the void.

A time came that he heard Tulkas’ voice and found himself writhing in anticipation of the ecstasy to come without even bothering to open his eyes. He moaned and nuzzled the Vala’s neck and whispered, "I love you."

"But not that way," the Vala said with a laugh. "Open your eyes, child," he commanded and there was no choice but to obey. Tulkas turned him around so he was facing out into space. As always the stars shone down in implacable disregard of what was happening to him, jewels shining in the tapestry of night. Below, the snow-covered mountainside glowed palely, while clouds scuttled across its flanks, hiding the lower reaches from his sight.

"A beautiful night," Tulkas said conversationally. "Look! Eärendil sails before us. See the silmaril shining from the mast?"

He looked and saw Vingilot and he shivered, though he did not know why. He looked up at the Vala and began weeping. "I love you... please... I love you."

"I know child," Tulkas whispered, and for the first time Tulkas Astaldo bent down and kissed him on the cheek rather than on the lips. "This is not a punishment, beloved." Then the Vala lifted him up and threw him into the night. The ecstasy of flight, though brief, was worth the terror that followed as he plunged into the darkness below.

He wasn’t sure, but of all the Valar into whose embrace he fell, Tulkas was the one with whom he seemed to spend the longest before being passed on to the next Vala....

"Open your eyes, child."

Aulë.

He was weeping before he could even comply with the Vala’s command. He had been Aulë’s apprentice once. He remembered that, though he remembered little else about himself. He always felt the deepest shame when he found himself in Aulë’s embrace. Aulë never treated him with anything but kindness but that didn’t matter, he was ashamed nonetheless. He only wished he could remember why.

"This is not a punishment, my apprentice-that-was," Aulë would tell him and hold him lovingly as he continued weeping, letting him cry himself out before kissing him and pushing him off the precipice....

He could never decide if it was worse to fall into the hands of the Valar or the Valier. Yavanna... Estë... Nessa... they looked upon him with such compassion but he always felt that they secretly despised him, Varda especially.

"Nay, child," the Queen of Stars said when he finally came to her. "We do not despise you, never have. Once, we pitied you, so lost you were and we wept for you."

"Pitied me?" he whispered, fearful of the answer, but willing to listen if it meant delaying the inevitable, if only for a few brief seconds.

Varda leaned down and stroked his hair and smiled. "Yes, love. You were so pitiful when you first came to us, weeping and trembling in fear. It nearly broke my heart to see you in such straits."

"I-I don’t remember."

"No reason why you should, my pet."

"And now?"

"Now I love you." She kissed him on the brow and smiled tenderly at him.

He still screamed going down... and the time after that... and the time after that... and....

"Open your eyes, child," ordered the Elder King.

For some reason he never seemed to mind falling into Manwë’s embrace, terrifying though it might be. He opened his eyes to find Manwë calmly looking at him.

"I’m sorry," he said. He always said that whenever he found himself with the Elder King. He could not remember what he was supposed to be sorry for, he only knew that he meant it.

Manwë nodded gravely. "I know you are, child."

"It doesn’t change anything, does it?"

"On the contrary. It changes a great many things. You know that I love you, don’t you?"

"Yes," he whispered.

"Do you know why?"

He shook his head. Always the question was asked, but he never knew the answer and the despair he felt at his failing tore through him. He barely felt the Elder King’s kiss or felt himself being pushed off the edge....

"Open your eyes, child."

"I’m sorry."

"I know you are, child."

"I love you."

"Do you know why?"

"No. Forgive me. I don’t... forgive me, please forgive me." He was weeping now and Manwë held him tightly.

"I do forgive you, child. I have always forgiven you, always will." Then the Elder King kissed him on the brow. "I love you."

"I know."

"This is not a punishment, best beloved, believe that."

But it was difficult to do so when you were plummeting down the side of a mountain screaming into darkness....

"It’s all right, you know."

"What’s all right, child?"

He was again in Manwë’s embrace, this time facing out into the star-studded sky. "You can let go of me. I’m not afraid anymore."

"I’m glad to hear that, my love. Very glad."

No, he wasn’t afraid, but lack of fear did not prevent him from screaming towards the end anyway....

"I think I understand now."

"What do you understand?"

"This isn’t a punishment, it never was."

"What was it then?"

He did not answer for the longest time, for in truth he had not even thought that far ahead. It had taken him so long just to get to this point, to see what they had all been telling him.

"A... a lesson?" he asked tentatively.

Manwë smiled warmly and nodded. "As good an answer as any, child, and better than most."

"I love you," he told the Elder King.

"I know," Manwë replied, "and I’m sorry."

He nodded, then began to weep in earnest. "You’re my atar aren’t you? That’s why you love me, isn’t it?"

Manwë held him close. "That’s why we all love you. We are all your atari and amilli, if you could just see that."

He thought about it for awhile. "I forgive you Atar."

"Forgive me for what, child?"

"For what you are about to do to me again."

"Thank you, my son. You don’t know how much your forgiveness means to me."

This time he had nearly reached the bottom before he started screaming....

"Open your eyes, child."

He sighed and complied with the command. This time he was facing inward and Manwë held him close to him. He reached up with one hand and began caressing the Elder King’s face the way a young child will caress a parent’s cheek. Manwë allowed him the time he needed, never speaking, merely rubbing his back gently, lovingly, as a parent will comfort a small child. Finally he reached up and kissed Manwë on the cheek.

"You can let go now. I love you, Atar."

"I know," and the Elder King of Arda kissed his best beloved gently on the brow, then whispered "Namárië," into his ear before releasing him.

One step. That’s all it would take. That’s all that was necessary. Just one step. He looked up at Manwë and smiled. "Namárië," he whispered and without looking, backed off the edge of the precipice.

He was smiling as he fell, for he now realized that he was not falling into despair and darkness. Rather, he was falling into Love, had always been falling into Love. The Valar had only been giving him a gentle push in the right direction.

He was still smiling when the ground rose up to meet him. He never felt the impact....

"Open your eyes, child." Námo again.

He whimpered and tried to move out of the Vala’s embrace, but Námo just drew him in closer. He had lost count the number of times he had fallen into Námo’s arms, for always he would be passed from one Vala to the next, beginning with Námo and ending with Manwë only to be passed to Námo again. He remembered the second time that had happened he had collapsed to his knees, pleading to the Vala not to continue.

"Imsorryimsorryimsorry...."

Námo had simply picked him up. "It doesn’t work that way, my best beloved. It never does."

The third time he had simply stood there in dejected resignation of what had to be. Námo had looked upon him with pity, but it didn’t stop him from pushing him off the edge of the precipice.

"Open your eyes, child," Námo said again with quiet insistence.

He sighed, wondering how many more times he would be passed from one Vala to the next. He did not think he could endure it, but knew that he must. He had no other choice. He opened his eyes, and everything changed....

****

"Welcome home, child."

He blinked up at the Lord of Mandos, not sure what was happening, for he found himself lying in Námo’s arms as the Vala sat in an ornately carved chair and they were no longer on the mountain. He shifted his gaze to take in his surroundings and found himself in a garden. The profusion of color and scents was almost overpowering and he cringed somewhat, closing his eyes.

"Where am I?" he said, or tried to. For some reason his throat refused to work properly and what came out sounded garbled. Námo, however, seemed to understand what he was trying to say.

"You are in one of the Gardens of the Reborn," the Vala said. "Here you will stay for a time."

He opened his eyes in surprise. "Reborn?" he managed to whisper.

"Yes, child," Námo said, then divining the confusion in the ellon’s mind, he continued to explain. "You thought you would never be reborn, didn’t you?" The ellon shook his head and Námo nodded. "But all has been renewed and forgiven and now you are here in this garden."

"My family?"

"Soon you will be reunited with your family, all of them," Námo promised with a warm smile, "for now, though, you must learn to live again."

"Live," the ellon sighed and it was such a sweet word. He closed his eyes, feeling suddenly lethargic and soon was drifting back into sleep.

Námo gazed down upon the Firstborn in his arms and smiled gently. "That’s it, child. Sleep and be refreshed. When you waken again, everything will be different... for all of us." He raised the ellon’s head slightly and bent down to kiss his brow. "Welcome home, indeed, Fëanáro," he whispered and Fëanáro smiled in his sleep even as he nestled further into Námo’s embrace.

****

Atari: (Quenya) Plural of atar: Father.

Amilli: (Quenya) Plural of amillë: Mother.

Sun-in-Eclipse

Summary: When the first solar eclipse occurs, the Valar must decide how to explain it to the Elves. Written for the ALEC challenge ‘Sun and Moon’, for which it won second place (tied with Larner).

****

‘But Tilion went with uncertain pace, as yet he goes, and was still drawn towards Arien, as he shall ever be;... it will chance that he comes so nigh that his shadow cuts off her brightness and there is darkness amid the day.’ — ‘Of the Sun and the Moon and the Hiding of Valinor’, Silmarillion

****

"They will think it is a sign," Námo said to the other Valar foregathering at the mansion of the Lord of Mandos and his Spouse in Valmar. The Valar were sitting under an arbor in the garden overlooking the Ezellohar and the Máhanaxar, taking their ease on this Valanya, listening to the sound of the bells of the Mindon Nyellion wafting through the air as they sipped on miruvórë. The weekly audience in Ilmarin with Ingwë and his family was over and, as was their custom, they had come to Valmar to spend the rest of the day. They took turns hosting each other and this week it was Námo and Vairë’s turn.

Manwë gave him a slight smile. "Perhaps it is," he said teasingly.

"A sign of what though?" Oromë asked.

"A sign of our displeasure, perhaps," Námo ventured with a shrug, "or a sign of Melkor’s victory over their kin in Endórë. Who knows?"

"Well, if the latter, it would only be a temporary victory," Nienna said with a snort.

"It’s a natural astronomical phenomenon," Aulë said dismissively. "It was bound to happen, given the parameters we gave to Isil’s orbit."

"Yes, yes, but they don’t know that," Námo replied. "So, what do we do about it?"

"Do?" Tulkas asked, giving his brother Vala a puzzled look. "What do you mean? We’re not going to change the orbit to prevent it, are we?"

"No, Tulkas," Námo said with a laugh. "That’s not what I meant. I meant how do we prepare the Children for this."

"Should we even bother?" Nessa said with a shrug. "Should we not allow them to come to conclusions on their own?"

"They’ll come running to us for answers, regardless," Varda said with a knowing smile. "Perhaps Aulë or Ulmo can quench their curiosity by boring them with the mathematics and physics of celestial orbits that will occasionally cause Isil to eclipse Anar," Oromë said.

There were sniggers all around. "I can just see their eyes glazing over as Aulë expounds on the subject with his usual enthusiasm," Námo said, giving Aulë a wink.

"You know they are not quite ready for that," Yavanna replied, giving her husband a fond smile.

Aulë’s expression was sheepish. "I’m not that bad, am I?"

Now there was actual laughter. "Even my eyes would glaze over," Manwë exclaimed, "and I actually know what you’re talking about."

Aulë made a rude sound, sticking his tongue out at the Elder King, which set them laughing again.

"Getting back to the subject at hand, though," Námo said once they calmed down, "you know there will be panic in the streets of Eldamar. The Children have just gotten used to having the ‘Great Lights’ as they call them, and if, even for a few minutes, Anar’s light is darkened, they will wonder at it and fear the worst, thinking that Darkness has once again conquered the Light."

The others nodded. "True," said Ulmo, "and we should alert the Maiar to stand ready to quell any real panic, but I truly do not see what else we can do. To go and explain to them what will happen beforehand will most likely confuse them, yet to wait until afterwards may cause many to lose faith in us, thinking our powers have grown so weak that we can no longer control our own People."

"Tilion and Arien would find it amusing to think so," Oromë said with a grin and Vána nodded, equally amused, for the two held the allegiances of those particular Maiar.

"Or even worse," Irmo stated, "believe that we no longer have the strength to keep the Darkness at bay."

"It is a sticky situation, to be sure," Manwë said. "Perhaps we should inform the kings of what will happen and let them decide how to handle it."

"That might work," Námo said, giving Manwë a shrewd look. "Perhaps the two of us...."

Manwë nodded. "It is time, I think, to reveal to the Children the meaning of your emblem," he said, pointing at the Sun-in-Eclipse pendant that Námo wore.

Námo smiled. "I know they have long wondered at it, but none have dared to ask me or any of my People about it."

"And what answer would you have given them if they had?" Vairë asked, giving her husband a knowing look.

Námo chuckled. "I would have given them my gravest Lord-of-Mandos stare and in as cold a tone as I could manage I would have said, ‘Pray, my children, that you will never find out.’"

There was a split second of silence and then laughter rang out, the sound floating up the Landamallë Valion. The Maiar who were tending to their own business paused to listen and smiled at one another.

****

Ingwë frowned at the two Valar, stealing a glance at Arafinwë and Olwë standing on either side of him. Neither of them looked any happier than he felt. "Is this another of those natural consequences," he asked, "like the waning and waxing of the amount of daylight throughout the year?"

"Exactly like," Manwë said with a pleased look. "There is naught to fear, but we wanted to alert you three to what will happen so you may prepare your people. We do not want a panic."

"No, of course not," Ingwë said with a sigh. He gave the Elder King and Lord Námo a rueful look. "Are there any other such... er... consequences of the creation of Anar and Isil of which we should be aware, my lords?"

*Sunspots? Solar flares?* Námo bespoke to Manwë, keeping his expression neutral.

*Behave!* Manwë shot back, barely able to keep a straight face. He shook his head. "No, Ingwë, there are no other consequences. You have my word."

The three kings looked a little less worried. Olwë spoke next. "The question is, how do we explain it so it makes sense? Indeed, I’m not really sure I understand it myself."

Námo pointed to his pendant. "Have you ever wondered at this emblem?" he asked.

"Of course, lord," Arafinwë answered. "I do not know an Elf who has not. The emblems of the other Valar are recognizable and nameable but yours...." He gave the Vala an apologetic shrug.

Námo nodded. "I know. I have waited for someone brave enough to ask me about it, but so far, none have."

"Were we supposed to?" Ingwë asked, giving the Valar a worried look.

"No, Ingwë," Námo said with a gentle smile. "but knowing the inquisitive nature of the Eldar, I thought perhaps someone might at least approach one of my Maiar, if not me. Even Fëanáro never did. At any rate, my emblem is an exact representation of what will happen in a few weeks." He held the pendant up so the kings could have a closer look. "Tilion will pass directly before Arien, blocking out much of her light save the corona that you see here. We call this phenomenon ‘ithirdushamanúthan’ in Valarin."

Arafinwë stared at the pendant and frowned in thought. "I watched as you launched Isil and then Anar and I know that Tilion’s vessel is much smaller than Arien’s. How can he block out her light?"

"Ah," Manwë said with delight. "A most astute question. If you will, my son," he said to Arafinwë, "hold your hand out at arm’s length with your palm facing me, as if you were bidding me to halt, keeping it before your eyes." Arafinwë did as the Elder King commanded and Manwë continued. "When you put your hand, which is smaller than my head, in front of you like so, what happens?"

"Certainly a small portion of your face is now blocked," the Noldóran answered. Ingwë and Olwë copied him and both nodded in agreement with Arafinwë’s words.

"You probably have experienced this in your daily lives without giving it any thought," Manwë said, "but it is similar to what will happen between Tilion and Arien. Distance is the key." He gave Arafinwë a nod. "Go over to the door and put your hand up as before. Is my head hidden from your view?"

"Yes, lord," Arafinwë answered. "Indeed, much of your hröa is blocked from my view." He lowered his hand and at a gesture from Manwë he returned to stand with his fellow kings.

Manwë nodded. "And so it will be with Arien. Tilion is much closer to Arda than she and thus, when he passes in front of her, it will appear to us who are here as if he is blocking her light even though, as Arafinwë pointed out, Tilion’s vessel is much smaller than Arien’s."

"And that is all you need to say to your people," Námo added. "Tilion will pass between us and Arien and it will only seem as if he is swallowing her light. The phenomenon will last only for a few brief moments and then you will see Tilion moving westward again and Arien’s light will shine forth as before."

The three kings gave each other considering looks. Olwë spoke to Ingwë and Arafinwë. "If we caution our families and our courtiers to maintain a calm front it will go a long way towards keeping the populace from panicking."

The other two Elves nodded and then Ingwë turned to Námo. "Your emblem has been known to us since we first came to Aman, lord," he said, "yet only now do we understand its significance. Does this mean that you knew all along that the Two Trees would be destroyed and that Isil and Anar would be created?"

Námo stared at the Elf for some time before answering and Ingwë paled under his regard. "No, Ingwë, I did not know for sure," he finally said, speaking softly. "When we first created our thrones that form the Máhanaxar, something compelled me to carve on the back of my throne this image. It was something I had seen before in another part of Eä long before Arda was ever brought into existence."

The three kings gave the Vala looks of surprise. Then Arafinwë’s expression became more thoughtful. "Ithirdu-dusham-dushamanúthan," he muttered, stuttering over the strange sounds of the Valar’s own language, a language which the Elves had not tried to master.

"The word means ‘overshadowing’," Manwë said helpfully.

Arafinwë nodded. "Halië, then," he said with a decisive nod.

"As good a word as any to describe what happens," Námo said with a shrug.

"I agree," Manwë said. With that, the audience seemed to be over and the three Elves made their obeisance before being escorted out by Manwë’s Herald, quietly discussing between them how they would handle the news to their people.

"Well, that hopefully solves that problem," Námo said with a smile. "I wonder how Melyanna will explain the eclipse to the Children in Endórë."

Manwë gave a snort. "I doubt she will begin teaching them celestial mechanics."

Námo barked a laugh even as he faded from Manwë’s view.

****

Melian, Maia Queen of Doriath, sighed as she looked upon the stricken faces of the Children who were her subjects. Even her lord husband seemed nonplused as he gazed upward at the sight of Ithil overtaking Anor. How to explain it as simply as possible?

"Ah," she said brightly, coming to a decision, "Tilion still pines for Arien, I deem. See you how he is drawn to her, his very shadow cutting off her brightness. But I do not think she will let him get too near to her, for look, even now he flees from her wrath. Tilion has ever loved Arien, all know this, but Arien has eyes only for another and she loves Tilion not. Tilion has always been a fool where Arien is concerned." She shook her head in what she hoped was a believable expression of amusement at the foibles of her fellow Maia.

Those surrounding her and Elu continued staring at the drama unfolding in the heavens above them, quietly commenting to one another on the Queen’s explanation. She watched as Finrod exchanged glances with Galadriel and Celeborn, both of them giving him a shrug, as if unsure how to take her words. Lúthien, she noticed without surprise, was dancing under the eerie shadowy light, apparently unconcerned by the strangeness of the situation. Elu Thingol lowered his gaze from the heavens to frown at his wife, while she plastered an expression of serene indifference on her fair countenance. Then he glanced at Finrod, giving him a questioning look, as if his Noldorin kinsman’s opinion was the only one that mattered.

Finrod glanced pensively at Melian and she suspected that he did not believe a word she had spoken. She gave him a brilliant smile, daring him to contradict her. His eyebrows went up and there was a slightly amused look on his face, as if he recognized the game she was playing, but when he turned to Elu his expression was more sober and he shrugged. "Works for me."

****

All words are Quenya unless otherwise noted.

Ezellohar: The Green Mound of the Two Trees, adopted and adapted from Valarin.

Máhanaxar: Ring of Doom, adopted and adapted from Valarin.

Valanya: ‘Powers-day’, the last day of the six-day week of the Eldarin calendar used in Aman at this time.

Mindon Nyellion: Tower of Bells. They would go silent at the Mingling of the Light of the Trees.

Landamallë Valion: Avenue of the Valar that runs between the mansions of the Elder King and the Lord of Mandos [landa ‘wide’ + mallë ‘street, road’, Vali ‘alternate plural of Vala’ + -on ‘plural genitive suffix’].

Hröa: Body.

Noldóran: King of the Noldor, an attested word.

Ithirdushamanúthan: (Valarin) Literally, ‘Light Marred’, which is the closest I could come to ‘eclipse’, given the few words we have of the Valar’s language. Cf. Atháraphelun Dushamanúthan ‘Arda Marred’. Manwë’s translation is obviously very free.

Halië: ‘The Hiding’ or ‘The Overshadowing’; gerundial form of the verb halya- ‘to veil, conceal, screen (from light), overshadow’. Cf. the adjective. halda ‘veiled, hidden, shadowed’. See ‘Etymologies’, s.v. SKAL-, The Lost Road, HoME V, and Vinyar Tengwar 46, ‘Addenda and Corrigenda to the Etymologies — Part Two’, page 13. ‘Overshadow’ is a synonym of ‘eclipse’, whether as a verb or a noun.

The Exilic Noldo’s Guide to Coping with Post-Helcaraxë Stress Syndrome (or PHSS)

Summary: Sometimes even Elves need a little psychological help and who better to offer it than someone who’s ‘been there and done that’? Inspired by the Middle-earth Express prompt #94, ‘Snow’, as well as a conversation about this very subject with Ellie. Dedicated to all the snow-weary souls longing for spring. Hang in there and keep telling yourself : ‘At least it’s not the Helcaraxë!’ *LOL*

Note: This early in the history of the Exilic Noldor in Beleriand, they are still speaking Quenya and they have not yet adopted Sindarin names for themselves. A list of character names and their Sindarin equivalents can be found at the end.

****

Vinyamar, Year of the Sun 1:

"Damn snow! I hate it!"

Laurefindil looked up from the accounts book he was working on to stare at Cehtelion with some consternation. The ellon was standing by one of the embrasures of Laurefindil’s study morosely staring out into a wall of white.

"It is only snow," the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower said in a reasonable tone, returning his attention to the ledger to record an item in the household accounts. It was something that his steward should be doing, but Laurefindil had decided he wanted to understand better the workings of his household and was happily making his way through the ledger. His closest friend, the Lord of the House of the Fountain, had come earlier to visit and until now had been content to sit beside the fireplace and read while Laurefindil finished up the accounts. His outburst had been unexpected. "It is not as if thou hast never seen it before."

Cehtelion jerked his head around to stare at him in disbelief. "Only snow!" he fairly yelled. "It is the damn Helcaraxë all over again. Will they never leave us alone!?" He turned back to the snow and raised his fists above him. "Leave us alone, damn you!" he angrily screamed. "Leave us alone! Have we not suffered enough? Will we never be free of you damn...."

Laurefindil rose in alarm at the very first shout and went to his friend, turning him away from the offending sight and holding him closely. Cehtelion started weeping as he collapsed into his arms.

"But it truly is only snow," Laurefindil whispered into Cehtelion’s ear as he rocked his friend to comfort him. He gazed past the ellon’s shoulder to stare out of the embrasure. His study overlooked the Sea. The snow fell silently in great sweeps of white, disappearing into the greyness of the landscape surrounding Vinyamar, Turucáno’s city, which was still being built. Laurefindil’s present home was merely a humble stone cottage of four rooms hastily constructed on one of the cliffs above the city. A larger home within the city proper was even now being built that would accommodate his entire household, though construction was temporarily halted when the snows began to fall. He glanced down at the Sea which was the color of pewter, and only the sullen motion of the waves breaking against the seawall told him where it was, for sky and Sea had become one with the storm. He was unsurprised that Cehtelion was feeling irritable and depressed. The snow had been falling for four days straight and there had been no sign of Anar during all that time.

"It is not the Helcaraxë, meldonya," Laurefindil said soothingly. "Not even close."

Cehtelion pulled out of his embrace, his expression one of disbelief. "How canst thou be so calm about it?" he demanded. "How long did we trudge across the land bridge, half blinded by the storms that never seemed to end, fighting not only the elements but the monsters that lived there? How many of us never made it? Hast thou forgotten Ornendur or Indiliën? Hast thou forgotten our own lord’s wife?"

"Never!" Laurefindil retorted, now getting angry. "I will never forget Elenwë or any of the others who died. I see their faces before me every night. Do not presume to think I would ever forget...."

Now Cehtelion looked abashed and he quickly hugged his best friend. "Forgive me," he said softly. "I never meant... Valar, Laurë! Will this nightmare never end?"

"Only if we do our very best to put it behind us," Laurefindil answered solemnly.

Cehtelion gave him a quizzical look. "How?"

Now Laurefindil smiled and motioned for his friend to join him as he looked out at the snow. Nothing had changed in the view outside, though perhaps the snow was falling less heavily than before. "We put all the horror behind us by seeing the beauty that surrounds us," he stated.

"What beauty?" Cehtelion asked, glaring at the snow. "I see no beauty."

"But it is beautiful," Laurefindil insisted. "Look thou! Seest not the icicles hanging off the eaves? Their crystals are exquisite in the gentle complexity of form, each one the same yet different. And hast thou not seen the frosting of ice in the pool of water that thou hast before thine own house which is actually a mass of complex geometric shapes? And remember the subtle shadow of moonlight on the snow when Isil was at his fullest? It was lovely to behold, was it not? And the way the snow sparkles like diamonds in the bright light of Anar. I find even the Sea in all its leaden greyness beautiful in its own way."

Cehtelion stared at his friend with growing dismay. "Art thou well, Laurë? I have never heard such... such nonsense come forth from thy lips before."

Laurefindil cast him an amused glance. "It is not nonsense. Look beyond the Grinding Ice, Noldo."

Cehtelion gave Laurefindil a hard stare which the ellon returned with equanimity. There was something in his friend’s eyes, some light of acceptance that did not dismiss the pain and sorrow that lay behind the light but transmuted it. It was not exactly joy but it was something like. He turned his head and stared out at the falling snow, trying desperately to see the world as Laurefindil saw it. At the moment it all looked so dreary and his fëa was burdened with memories of endless white and death. "I just wish it would stop," he finally said in a soft, sad voice.

And, as if in response to that sentiment, the snow began to let up and the clouds started breaking apart. Even as they watched in bemusement, Anar appeared behind the grey veil, her light creating a glittering world of diamonds and sapphires. Cehtelion sucked in a breath in amazement. Laurefindil merely smiled.

"Seest thou, it is not so dreary looking now, is it?" he said, clapping his friend on the shoulder.

Cehtelion gave him a wry smile. "Methinks thou shouldst write a book."

"A book?" Laurefindil exclaimed. "What sort of book wouldst thou have me write?"

"Something that helps others to see the beauty around them," Cehtelion replied, sweeping a hand out to encompass the snow-covered landscape. Even the Sea no longer looked sullen and grey but now sported shades of blue and indigo. "I do not know how thou doest it, frankly. We suffered so much misery...."

"Mostly of our own making," Laurefindil said with a shrug. He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly in thought. "Our experiences, whether benign or horrific, shape us and make us who we are but we must never let them dominate us. That way lies only madness."

Cehtelion nodded. "Perhaps thou art right."

Laurefindil laughed, the sound of it ringing joyously. "I am always right, didst thou not know?" Cehtelion joined him in laughter. "In truth, though," Laurefindil continued more soberly, "I know no one who seems to be suffering this hatred for snow but thou. I think such a book would be wasted effort."

Cehtelion shook his head. "I think not. I think more are suffering than thou knowest. For all that word hath reached us by Aran Findaráto that this snow is temporary and that a warm season will follow, I deem many of us are finding it difficult to believe this and are falling into deep depression, losing ourselves in our memories of the Helcaraxë. We need a new perspective, one that thou seemest to have found for thyself without much effort."

"Nay, meldonya, in that thou art mistaken," Laurefindil protested. "Much effort on my part went into seeing the beauty of snow and ice that now surrounds us, for I have suffered from my own nightmares. Yet, I have faith in Aran Findaráto’s words, words that he sayeth come from the lips of Tári Melyanna herself. She is a Maia, after all. We would be fools to doubt her word."

"All the more reason to write the book, meldonya," Cehtelion insisted. "Thou hast suffered as have we all, but thou hast found a way through and beyond that suffering that others, myself included, have not been able to find. Such a book, I deem, may be the saving of many whose fëar are overburdened with too much sorrow and pain."

"Well, I will consider thy suggestion, if I see evidence that such a book would be welcome," Laurefindil said. "But look! Let us abandon this dreary place and frolic in the snow. See, young Itarildë and other elflings are already outside playing."

Cehtelion looked down onto the beach below the city and smiled at the sight of their golden princess running through the drifts with other elflings, their childish voices ringing with laughter, and nodded. The two left the study and donned cloaks before stepping outside, making their way along the snow-shrouded path leading to the city.

"So what title do you think I should give this hypothetical book of thine?" Laurefindil asked as they walked briskly on top of the snow.

"How about ‘Beyond the Helcaraxë — An Exile’s Perspective’?"

"Hmm... I’ll have to think about it. I am still not convinced that there is such a need."

They reached the bottom of the cliff and made their way through the half-built city until they were near the seawall that looked down upon the beach where the elflings were playing. Turucáno and other courtiers were already there. The two gave their king their obeisance, which he barely acknowledged, for he was scowling down at the children.

"What ails thee, aranya?" Laurefindil ventured to ask. "Why hast thou such a glum face on this lovely day?"

Turucáno turned to him, scowling even more. "Lovely! What’s so lovely about all this damn snow? I hate it! Why won’t the Valar leave us alone? How can my daughter play in it when her ammë fell through the ice and died? It’s obscene. I should order her and her friends to cease their play."

Their king’s outburst surprised them all and there was an uneasy silence among them. Cehtelion gave Laurefindil a knowing look and nodded. Laurefindil sighed. Mayhap his friend was right. Perhaps he should write the book. It would save having to repeat himself to everyone he met suffering from this malady. Hmmm.... I wonder what we should call it? he thought to himself. Post-Helcaraxë Blues? He shook his head. He would have to think about it later. Right now, he needed to minister to his king.

"But, aranya, it is quite lovely," he said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster, refusing to look Cehtelion’s way, for out of the corner of his eye he could see his friend grinning. "Look thou! Seest not the icicles hanging off the eaves of the buildings behind us? Their crystals are exquisite in the gentle complexity of form...."

****

Ellon: Male Elf.

Helcaraxë: Grinding Ice.

Meldonya: My (male) friend.

Fëa: Spirit, soul. The plural is fëar.

Aran: King. Aranya: My king.

Tári: Queen.

Ammë: Hypocoristic form of amillë: Mother.

Quenya names and their Sindarin equivalents:

Laurefindil: Glorfindel

Cehtelion: Ecthelion

Turucáno: Turgon

Findaráto: Finrod

Melyanna: Melian

Itarildë: Idril

Once Upon a Blizzard

Summary: As a blizzard rages, a tale is told. Written for the Teitho contest ‘Once Upon A Time’, for which it won second place.

****

Beleriand, F.A. 552, seven years since the beginning of the War of Wrath:

The battles had ceased for a time with the sudden onslaught of a blizzard that blanketed the Taleth Dirnen before what had once been the fair kingdom of Nargothrond. The campfires of the Elves and Edain flickered fitfully as the wind swept down from the northwest.

"A bitter night," Gil-galad muttered as he sat in his tent with his captains, calmly cleaning his sword.

"A good night for story-telling, though," Beregond son of Bregolas said. He was the only Adan among them. "I remember how on such a night we would all huddle around the fire while Grandfer would regale us with one marvelous tale after another." There was a wistful look in his eyes and the Elves hid amused smiles at the youngest among them.

"What sort of tales?" Gil-galad asked with obvious interest.

Beregond turned red and stammered something so low not even elven ears could hear.

"What was that?" Gil-galad insisted with a slight smile and a quirk of an eyebrow.

Beregond blushed even further but spoke more loudly. "I said they were just tales of no real interest to the Firstborn."

"Why don’t you let us be the judge of that," Oropher of Doriath said not unkindly, giving the young Adan a friendly smile. Beregond, for all his youth, was a canny warrior and strategist and highly respected by Gil-galad and his other captains. Some of the Elves from Aman had sneered at the thought of allowing any of the Edain leadership roles in the army. However, the Beleriandic Elves, Sindar and Noldor alike, had made it a point to include the lords of the Edain, few though they were, in all deliberations.

"They have as much a stake in this war as we," Lord Círdan had said when some of the Amanians voiced their objections. "More so," Círdan had continued, "for, unlike us, they have nowhere else to go; this is their only home. If they lose this, they lose all, whereas we Firstborn can always retreat to the West, for I think even the Noldor will be forgiven in the end."

When Eönwë, as Captain of the Host of Valinor, agreed with Círdan, the objections ceased, though not all were happy with the inclusion of the Secondborn in the councils of the Elves and Maiar. Some of the Amanian troops refused flat out to fight alongside the Edain. Indeed, they were rather dismissive of the Beleriandic Elves as well. It escaped no one’s notice that the all-Amanian companies who fought early on in the war tended to end up becoming decimated while the mixed companies tended to survive almost whole. Afterwards, Eönwë ordered all companies to be inclusive and soon the worth of the Edain was recognized by all.

Gil-galad nodded at Oropher’s words. "Come, Beregond," he commanded, "let us hear a tale of the Edain."

"What do you wish to hear?" the young Man acquiesced reluctantly.

"What was your favorite tale as a child?" Lindir asked. He was the youngest of the Elves there, having been born about a century after the first Rising of Ithil.

For a moment Beregond did not speak. Instead, he stared down at his hands, his expression pensive. Finally, without looking up, he said, "I was always asking Grandfer for the story of how Lord Finrod found the first of the Edain."

"Bëor’s people," Gil-galad muttered.

Beregond nodded. "And mine."

Several of the Elves stared at the Adan with curiosity, one or two of them remembering those times quite well.

"Well, let us hear this tale, youngling," Oropher said, "and we can compare notes. I am curious to see how different your tale will be from the truth."

Beregond stared at the Elf with affront. "My Grandfer would not lie...."

"Peace, child," Gil-galad said, raising a hand to stem the tide of angry words. He sheathed his sword. "Oropher is not implying anything of the sort. However, even I who am young by the account of my people have heard tales told by Mortals that have no bearing on the true events they purport to relate. None here will berate or ridicule you for your telling. We are just curious to know what details have been omitted or added along the way." He paused and smiled fondly at his youngest captain. "Also, I think I can speak for all here that this will be the first time we have ever heard this tale from the point of view of the Edain."

There were several nods and words of affirmation. Beregond seemed appeased by the sincerity of the Elves’ interest in his story and he was at last persuaded to tell it. Lindir refilled his goblet with the heady mulled wine they were all drinking and after a sip or two Beregond began, his voice taking on the cadence of a natural story-teller and some there listening assumed (rightly) that he was unconsciously imitating his beloved Grandfer. "In a time of little hope, Balan, lord of our house, who would later be called Bëor, urged his people to flee ever westward from the darkness that was behind them, seeking ever for the land of Light rumored to be somewhere before them...."

"From what were they fleeing?" Voronwë, an Exilic Noldo who had once been of doomed Gondolin, asked.

Beregond’s expression became suddenly wary and closed, which surprised the Elves.

"Finrod never did discover what happened," Oropher said with a shrug. "He said that none of the Edain would speak of it."

"He left a record of a conversation with one Andreth, a Wise-woman of the Edain," Gil-galad said. "There was some hint in it that at one time the fathers of the Edain worshiped Morgoth."

"That’s a lie!" Beregond fairly screamed as he leapt up, his hands balled into fists. "We never served the Dark Lord, never!" He was nearly in tears and was halfway out of the tent before anyone could respond.

Gil-galad stood up and grabbed him, pulling him back in. "Hush, Beregond," he said softly yet with great command when Beregond started to protest and the young Man subsided, allowing himself to be drawn back inside. The other Elves sat in astonished shock, for that was not the reaction they had been expecting.

"But, it is well known among us," Nambaurato, an Amanian Elf, said, looking bemused, "that Men have ever been a grief to Lord Manwë, for we deem that of all the Powers Men resemble Morgoth the most, in spirit at least, though it is true that he has ever feared and hated you from what I have heard since arriving on these benighted shores."

Beregond went white, his lips thinning. "Tell that to Beren or Húrin, Elf!" he snarled through gritted teeth and Nambaurato had the grace to blush.

"Peace," Gil-galad demanded, still holding onto the Adan. "We are all friends here and the enemy of the Enemy who has ever striven to drive our two peoples apart. I apologize for anything said here that offended you, Beregond, it was not mine or anyone’s intent."

There were nods all around. Then Lindir placed his hand on Beregond’s arm and gave him a warm smile. "I’m still interested in hearing this tale of yours. I remember Bëor. I remember when Finrod brought him to Nargothrond and we heard from his own lips how he found the Edain, so now I would hear this tale from the other side, as it were."

Beregond said nothing at first but when each of the Elves added their apologies to Gil-galad’s he was mollified and agreed to resume the tale. "I beg forgiveness for my outburst, my lords...."

"Now none of that," Gil-galad said with a mock glare. "If you call me ‘my lord’ one more time, young Beregond, I’ll have to be very angry with you and come up with a suitable punishment."

There were chuckles all around, for Gil-galad was known far and wide for his inventiveness. Even Beregond smiled, having been a victim of Gil-galad’s creative punishments on more than one occasion.

"That’s better. Now, the night grows old. Let us hear this tale of yours."

Beregond nodded and resumed his narrative. "They were weary and heart-sore, for another range of mountains was before them and they despaired. But Lord Balan rallied them and urged them ever onward, though the going was grim and many were lost in the treacherous crossing. Finally, they found a way into a new land that stretched before them and many hoped and prayed that they had reached their final destination. In the east winter held sway over all but here summer ruled and...."

"Summer!" exclaimed Oropher. "I think not. Finrod never hunted in the summer, only in the autumn. He was with his cousins hunting when he decided to travel south into Ossiriand."

"Grandfer said it was summer..." Beregond retorted, though there was a hint of doubt in his tone.

"Definitely autumn," Oropher insisted. "In fact, nearly at the doorsteps of winter, as I recall. Your grandfather got that part right at least, for Beleriand has the same seasons as Eriador I deem, though I am told the climate here is somewhat milder."

"Maybe after all that these people suffered before reaching Beleriand," Lindir suggested mildly, "this place seemed like a paradise to them and everyone knows that no paradise is touched by winter’s frost."

Nambaurato snorted. "Tell that to the Belain, my friend. Aman is as paradisaical as you will ever find in this world, but Lord Manwë does like his snow — lots of it." There were several raised eyebrows at that.

"Well, we’re getting far afield from the tale," Gil-galad replied with a smile as he looked at Beregond sitting there, waiting patiently for the discussion to cease. "Summer or winter, it matters not. Please continue."

Beregond nodded and picked up the tale where he had been interrupted. "The weary travelers came upon a spring and there they encamped for a time. Lord Balan called for a celebration, and many of the men went forth to hunt, returning with succulent game and a great feast was made. After a time, though, the people slept and as they slept it seemed that in their dreams they heard beautiful music and a voice that sang in an unknown tongue, yet it was clear that this was no dream, for each saw that his fellow was awake as well."

"Finrod was ever known for his harping skills," Lindir interrupted. Beregond resisted a sigh, though his expression was less than amused. "I had the pleasure of hearing him once. It’s why I studied to become a harpist myself."

"And you are a very good harpist," Gil-galad said with a smile. "Perhaps when Beregond finishes his tale you will grace us with a sample of your skill." The implied reprimand was not lost on any of them and Lindir had the grace to offer his apology to Beregond for interrupting him. Beregond accepted the apology gracefully, adding that he looked forward to hearing Lindir play as well.

Gil-galad, satisfied with his two youngest captains, addressed Beregond again. "So what was the reaction of the Edain when they first set eyes on mine uncle?"

The young Man blushed. "They thought he was one of the Powers," he admitted.

There was gentle laughter all around. "Finrod was many things, but one of the Belain he wasn’t," Nambaurato said with a shake of his head.

"Did you know him?" Beregond asked shyly. He would never admit it to these Elves, but Finrod, king of Nargothrond, was his hero and he regretted that he would never meet him.

Nambaurato nodded. "A long time ago when he resided in Aman," he said. "Our families were not close, but my parents were members of King Finwë’s government and continue to be under King Finarfin. I remember Findaráto, as he was called then. He was rather quiet and unassuming, allowing his older cousins to take the lead in their play." He let out a brief laugh. "That is not to say he was not loath to coming up with some of their more outlandish schemes."

There were knowing smiles among the Elves. Gil-galad turned to Beregond. "So the Edain all thought Finrod one of the Powers, did they?"

Beregond nodded. "My people had encountered other Elves in their travels, of course, and had learned somewhat from them, but never had they seen anyone so... so magnificent!" The Elves hid smiles at the obvious hero-worship they saw in the Adan’s eyes. "Bëor called him Lord Nóm," Beregond continued, "and that is how he was known among my people. He taught us much in the time he spent with us and we loved him."

"And still do, apparently," Lindir whispered in a voice low enough that Beregond did not hear though all the other Elves did.

"Hmph," Nambaurato said in obvious disbelief. "I do not understand this awe you Edain have for Finrod. He was the least of the House of Finwë and most did not think he would amount to anything much. Indeed, I can honestly say that when we of Aman learned that he had actually been hailed as a king we were highly amused."

"He was a king, the greatest of them all," Beregond said hotly.

"Well, one of the greatest, to be sure," Gil-galad said with a deprecating smile and Beregond blushed, realizing he may have insulted the High King, indeed the only king of Beleriand still living.

Nambaurato, however, was not convinced. "He may have been a king, as you say, but he could not have been a good ruler, considering what he did."

"What did he do?" Beregond demanded, heedless in his anger.

"He got himself killed for an Adan," Nambaurato retorted with a dismissive sneer. "He got himself killed for no good reason when we...."

He got no further, for Beregond was on him, hitting him and fairly screaming, "Take it back! You take it back! He didn’t die for nothing, he...."

Gil-galad grabbed him, pulling him off the hapless Elf, then lifted the Mortal into his arms and casually threw him out of the tent into a nearby snowbank. The young Man yelled as he landed and then the freezing cold and wet sobered him as nothing else could. He huddled into a ball and started crying in shame, his tears freezing on his cheeks.

Gil-galad sighed and turned to Lindir. "Bring him back in before he freezes to death," he commanded, then went to check on Nambaurato, who was unharmed except for his pride.

"He should be punished," the Elf demanded.

"He will be," Gil-galad promised, "but you will apologize to him for your remarks. You will apologize to us all." The Amanian Elf started to protest but Gil-galad stilled him with a gesture. "Beregond is correct about one thing: Finrod was the greatest of us all and few could have done what he did. You insult not only my House, for Finrod was its lord, you insult Beregond’s House, as well, for the First House of the Edain has ever been loyal to the House of Finarfin."

Nambaurato paled at that and mumbled a half-hearted apology even as Lindir was bringing in an embarrassed and obviously freezing Beregond. A couple of the Elves grabbed blankets and bundled the Mortal into them, rubbing his arms and legs until he ceased his trembling. Lindir pushed a goblet of wine into his shaking hands and bade him to drink. Soon, he was feeling less frozen, but no less ashamed and he refused to look at any of them. Gil-galad knelt before him, giving him a sad smile. "Better?" he asked and Beregond nodded slightly, still not raising his eyes. "Your tale was well told," the High King said softly. "I am glad the memory of Finrod remains strong among the Edain. You do him great honor."

"H-he loved us," Beregond whispered, tears beginning to form once again.

Gil-galad reached up and wiped the tears from the young Man’s cheeks. "Yes, he did," he said softly. "Of all the Firstborn, he saw the worth of the Edain and rejoiced, for you were more than any had expected and we who have fought the long defeat honor the sacrifices your people have suffered for our sake."

"Gil-galad speaks truly," Oropher said. "Though my kinsman, Thingol, initially dismissed Beren’s worth, he came to respect him after. We all did."

There were nods all around, save from Nambaurato, who had never met any Mortal before coming to Beleriand.

Gil-galad rose gracefully from his kneeling position, lifting Beregond’s chin and forcing him to look at the High King. "Thou art a scion of the First House of the Edain, Beregond," he said solemnly. "That is a high lineage of which thou hast no need to be ashamed. Thou hast been faithful to thine oaths to me and I name thee Elf-friend before all." He gave a pointed look at Nambaurato as he said this and the Amanian Elf nodded. Then he turned back to Beregond, his mien less formal. "Thank you for your tale. It was quite... illuminating." He gave the Adan a small smile, which Beregond returned somewhat hesitantly.

"I am sorry for my outburst," Beregond whispered.

"I know you are," the High King said, "and we will discuss it at a later time, but for now, let us be friends." Then he turned to Lindir. "You were going to give us a taste of your harp playing."

Lindir nodded, already reaching for the precious lap-harp that never left his side even in battle. He tuned it quickly to a minor mode and as the blizzard raged around them he began to sing. It surprised no one that he chose to sing part of the ‘Lay of Leithian’ describing Beren coming to Nargothrond to reclaim an oath from its king....

****

"What happened to Beregond, Ada?" young Legolas asked as he huddled next to his father. They were in a cave, sitting by a cheerfully blazing fire. They had been hunting earlier with Legolas’ older brothers when a sudden snowstorm had forced them to seek shelter, separating the two of them from the rest of their party.

"He went to Númenor with Elros and became a lord of the realm," Thranduil answered with a smile. "His descendants were among the Faithful who fought beside Elendil and Isildur before the Black Gates."

"That was a good story, Ada," Legolas said after a moment.

"I’m glad you liked it, iôn nîn," Thranduil replied, gazing fondly at his youngest child.

"Tell me another?" the young Elf pleaded.

Thranduil sighed. This was the third story he had told his son, but Legolas looked no sleepier now than when he had finished telling his first tale. He glanced out into the storm and mentally shrugged. It wasn’t as if either of them had anywhere else to go. He stared back down at Legolas, whose expression was hopeful, and nodded.

"Let me tell you about when your daerada first met your daernana...."

Legolas grinned and snuggled even closer to the King of the Woodland realm, happy to have his beloved Ada all to himself for a change. As he listened to Thranduil spin yet another tale he fervently hoped the blizzard would go on for a very long time.

****

All words are Sindarin.

Edain: Plural of Adan: Mortal; specifically, one who is of the Three Houses of Men who aligned themselves with the Elves in their war against Morgoth.

Belain: Plural of Balan: Vala.

Ada: Hypocoristic form of Adar: Father.

Iôn nîn: My son.

Daerada: Hypcoristic form of Daeradar: Grandfather.

Daernana: Hypocoristic form of Daernaneth: Grandmother.

Beyond the Galvorn Door

Summary: The last Elf has been Reborn, the last ship has sailed. Nothing more for Námo to do but ferry the Mortals from the Circles of Arda... or is there? Inspired by the Middle-earth prompt #160, ‘Blood’.

Warning: Rated R for graphic description of vampirism.

****

Sometime during the Last Age of Arda:

Námo, Lord of Mandos, walked the empty Halls of his domain. The last of the Elves to be Reborn had gone. All the Elves who would die, had. The last ship had sailed from Mithlond with Círdan aboard. There would be no other ships to take the Straight Road ever again. Only the Houseless who had refused the Call remained wandering lost in Middle-earth, but they were not his concern. Eru would deal with them as He would in His own time.

He walked through each of the Halls, the Mardi Envinyatiëo and the Mardi Winiron. All empty. All silent. He had an urge to check behind every column and inside every sleeping chamber for errant fëar playing hide-and-seek and wondered if he should also turn off the lights as he went. In his mind he felt a whisper of laughter from his beloved Vairë at the thought and he smiled.

He would miss them, he knew. He would miss the laughter and the singing and the occasional upsets as fëar adjusted to being children again. They had seemed like his own children while they were under his care. He chuckled at that thought and Another laughed with him.

*Are you sorry to see them all go, my son?* came the gentle inquiry from the depths of his Being.

Námo shook his head. "Nay, Atar. I rejoice that they have all rejoined their loved ones in Life. It is as it should be. You know how I have looked forward to this day."

*I do. You have served me faithfully and with joy. It will not go unrewarded.*

"My reward is knowing that I have pleased you in my service, Atar. And my work is far from over. I will still continue to shepherd your other Children into your Presence until Arda is Renewed."

*That is true, but I will reward you nevertheless, my child, for I am well pleased.*

Námo mentally bowed in acquiescence, and smiled in anticipation, wondering what reward Ilúvatar had in store for him. His smile left him as he came to one more door.

It was made of galvorn, black and unadorned, reflecting nothing. There was no knob on this side. Indeed there was none on the other as well. Only he had the key to open it, and he rarely did. He did not now, but passed through it as if it were not there.

Beyond the door it looked much the same as the other side. He was in a Hall, beautiful in its own way, full of light and peace, its walls covered with exquisitely woven tapestries. It was not, however, empty. Námo glanced around. He was glad that this Hall was smaller than the others, that only a few handfuls of Elves dwelt here.

The Mar i-Estellóraron. The Hall of Those Without Hope. He could see them, though none saw him. Indeed, none had ever seen him. They came to this place blind to all else but themselves. They stood or walked unseeing and unseen by the others who dwelt there. They slept not nor found any solace. No judgment had been offered them, no forgiveness, for they desired it not. They were alone, without even hope to sustain them. And Eru intruded not upon their solitude.

The Lord of Mandos sighed. Somehow these had made their way here, heeding a Call they could not hear. They were not counted among the Houseless, but neither could they be counted among those destined to be Reborn. Life, for them, was not an option. And he always felt as if he had somehow failed them.

*Nay, my best beloved, the failure was never on your part.* Námo felt comforted by these words.

He looked about. Yes. There stood Fëanáro, staring at a tapestry, though perhaps not really seeing it. It was one of Námo’s favorites, woven by his beloved Vairë, showing Eärendil offering the Silmaril to Yavanna before the thrones of the Valar when first he had come to Valmar to plead for the Elves and Men of Middle-earth. When Námo had decided to hang it in this Hall, Fëanáro had gravitated to it immediately like a lodestone, and had never moved away, rooted forever before it, but what he saw or thought was anyone’s guess.

Four of his sons were also there, each oblivious to the others or anyone else. Macalaurë, of course, had long since returned to the Undying Lands, seeking forgiveness and dwelt now in Aman, though not in Tirion. The twins had not gravitated to this Hall after their death, but had allowed themselves to suffer Judgment. They, too, had been released and dwelt now with their older brother. Námo was glad that Amrod and Amras had chosen Judgment, had allowed the Valar to cleanse them of the Marring. This Hall should not have been needed, he thought sadly. No one should have to be here.

*But they are, my son,* came Eru’s reply. *And the real tragedy is that there are those who are here by choice.*

Námo nodded as he spied one who truly should not have been there.

Finwë.

He had entered this Hall by choice when Fëanáro arrived, wishing not to be separated from him. The once King of the Noldor sat against a pillar of light, waiting for his beloved Fëanáro to recognize him. He saw the Lord of Mandos, but did not acknowledge him, his fëa solely intent upon his son.

Námo stopped long enough to lay a hand on Finwë’s shoulder. "Patience, my child. Someday he may yet know you."

Finwë only nodded, incapable of words. In the silence of the Hall he had been the only one aware of his surroundings. At first he had spoken constantly to his son and later to his grandsons, hoping to reach them, bring them back from whatever darkness held them enthralled. But after millennia of unmitigated silence, save for the occasional visit by the Lord of Mandos, Finwë had stopped speaking at all. It hadn’t seemed worth the effort. He could have left the Hall at any time, but chose not to, not wishing to be parted from his beloved son. In that, Námo knew, Finwë had suffered a failure of hope, had allowed despair to enter into his heart, unable to trust in Eru’s ultimate mercy for his family. In his own way, Finwë was just as lost to hope as the others there.

Námo shook his head as he left Finwë and wandered through the Hall. Others were there. Eöl. Maeglin. Traitors and murderers both. Sadly there were even a few ellith. These Children were the last. It grieved him that any of them were there at all.

*As it grieves me, my son,* came Eru’s soft thought.

Námo nodded and then stopped before one particular soul. It was an ellon, once a lord among the Noldor-in-Exile who had died in the sack of Doriath, as Námo recalled. Like the others he stood unseeing, lost in his own version of hell. But something was different...something was not as it had been....

The Lord of Mandos stood there stunned. Could it be? He reached out a tentative hand and stroked the ellon’s face, wet with tears, tears that had not been there when last he’d walked this Hall a thousand sun-years ago.

"Cassalcarin?" Námo queried, his voice barely above a whisper.

Slowly, the ellon blinked, as if waking up.

"Cassalcarin?" Námo called again, a little louder.

The ellon blinked again and then his eyes focused directly on the Lord of Mandos. They widened and his lips trembled, his expression one of deep anguish. Námo could only stand there, a frisson of shock running through him.

"Wh-where am I?" Cassalcarin whispered hoarsely, speaking for the first time since he had died.

"You are in the Halls of Mandos, my son," Námo said gently.

"I-I’m dead? How?"

Námo nodded. "Do you not remember?"

Cassalcarin shook his head, looking bereft. Námo longed to embrace him, to comfort him, but he knew now was not the right time. He steeled himself for what he knew must come next.

"Do you want to remember?"

Cassalcarin gasped, put a hand before his mouth and stepped away from Námo, shaking his head, his eyes pleading. "I-I’m afraid."

"I know you are, child," Námo said sorrowfully. He knew only too well how afraid the ellon was. He also knew that Cassalcarin would know even greater fear before the end. "But you need not face it alone. Will you let me help you?"

Winter was fleeing before a Spring creeping towards Summer in the outer world before Cassalcarin was able to summon the courage to nod. Námo had waited patiently, would have waited eons instead of the few short months of the Sun that had passed, before the ellon gave his answer. He smiled gently, hoping to reassure the Elf.

"W-will it hurt... to remember, I mean?"

Námo nodded. "Yes, it will hurt."

"And after?"

The Lord of Mandos shook his head. "What comes after will be up to you, child. Judgment must be rendered."

The ellon paled and backed away some more until he was against one of the pillars, his expression stricken. "I... I don’t know if I can..." he started to say and then began weeping, hiding his face in his hands.

Námo went to him and put a hand on his shoulder. "You’ve come this far, Cassa," using the pet-name by which the ellon had been known as a child, "let me help you the rest of the way."

For an answer, Cassalcarin collapsed into Námo’s embrace, weeping inconsolably, fear filling him. Námo stroked his hair and rubbed his back.

"Shh. I will not leave you." He bent down and kissed the Elf on his brow. "Á enyalë sí!" he commanded, the force of his words echoing throughout the Hall like an earth tremor.

And Cassalcarin screamed, though he was unaware that he had....

****

They found him deep in the bowels of Menegroth and even these battle-hardened warriors were sickened by what they saw. The rape of Doriath had been glorious and they had sated themselves on the terror of those who fled before them, all deserving of death for denying their lords the Silmaril that rightfully belonged to them. They had shown no mercy, but what they discovered afterwards gave even them pause. They fled, never knowing that in the fleeing lay their salvation.

When the survivors of Doriath’s destruction found him sometime later their rage knew no bounds. The horror of finding this Noldo surrounded by the eviscerated corpses of their children as he greedily drank their blood was such that all reason fled.

Cassalcarin himself was past caring or knowing what he was doing, lost in the dark pleasure of his bloodlust. He had gotten a taste of blood during the First Kinslaying as he followed Lord Celegorm and the other Fëanárioni into exile. He had sworn no Oath but he had given them his allegiance. He had willingly slain the Teleri in Alqualondë and the rush that he had felt the first time he tasted someone else’s blood on his lips had driven him near to frenzy.

Over the centuries, though, he had managed to curb his appetite, contenting himself with the blood of the occasional deer or wolf, or sometimes the children of the Secondborn. But when he entered Doriath behind Lord Celegorm....

They took him and they killed him, but the dying was slow and exquisite in pain. He screamed and screamed, not really understanding what was happening or even why. He had felt so good before as the warm blood had coursed down his throat....

****

Cassalcarin continued screaming, writhing in Námo’s embrace, and then he stopped with a gasp and the Vala nodded, knowing that the memories had reached their end. The ellon moaned deeply and Námo allowed him to collapse to the floor. He looked down at him dispassionately and waited.

"I... I di-did that?" Cassalcarin finally asked, never looking up, the horror of the memories of what he had done, what he had been, nearly overwhelming him. When Námo did not respond, he looked up and quailed. The Vala’s implacable gaze was dark and dreadful and Cassalcarin nearly retreated back into the abyss from which he had managed to drag himself, though he did not know he had done so or that it had taken him nearly eight hundred yéni to do so.

"H-how long have I been here?"

Normally Námo did not bother to answer such a question. Nearly all his charges had asked him that, wondering if the length of their stay in Mandos was indicative of some personal failing on their part. This time, however....

"A long time, Cassalcarin. Six ages of the Sun have fled while you have been here."

Cassalcarin shook his head in disbelief, his eyes wide. "Six...six..." but he could not complete the thought. He swallowed and slowly stood up. "Wh-where have I been all that time?"

Námo smiled, but it was not a pleasant one and Cassalcarin shuddered at the sight. "You have been here, child, locked away from all, unwilling to allow even Ilúvatar admittance to your imprisoned fëa."

"I-I don’t understand... locked away where?"

The Vala reached out with his right index finger and touched a spot between the ellon’s eyes. "Á cenë!" he commanded and Cassalcarin gave a shuddering gasp. He suddenly realized he was not alone. Others were there, standing or walking or sitting. They seemed to pay no attention to him or the Vala. He saw Lord Celegorm and started to go to him, but Námo stopped him.

"Nay, child, you cannot go to him. He is not here."

"What...?" the ellon started to say, confusion in his face, for he could plainly see his liege lord.

Námo shook his head sadly. "He is not here. You see only an echo of him as he wanders this Hall, unaware of anything or anyone but himself. He can neither see nor hear you... or me, for that matter."

Cassalcarin looked about, seeing what the Lord of Mandos meant. He turned back to Námo and swallowed. "Th-this is...th-the..."

"The Mar i-Estellóraron, yes. What the Mortals of this time would call the Nómë i-Rácineron, though that is not strictly true."

Cassalcarin gave a shudder. He was damned. He knew that, beyond all hope of redemption, he was forever cursed, no less than Fëanáro. He knew despair and wondered why he had sought to free himself from his self-imposed prison, a prison he so richly deserved.

"Perhaps because you seek that which you think is beyond your reach," Námo said softly, watching the interplay of emotions sweep across the ellon’s face, divining his thoughts. "Perhaps you seek forgiveness."

Cassalcarin shook his head. "Wh-what I did...it was unspeakable. It could never be forgiven. Eru would not allow it and He would be right not to."

"Perhaps," Námo conceded, "but that is not for you to decide. Your only task at this point is to decide if you want forgiveness. I must warn you, the cost to you will be high, higher than you can ever imagine. If you truly seek forgiveness freely given, you will be forever lost."

Cassalcarin gazed at the Vala fearfully. "L-lost? Am I not already lost?"

Námo actually smiled. "No, my son, merely misplaced." Then his expression darkened and he held out his hand. "Take it," he commanded and the Elf moaned, his hands to his mouth, his body trembling, tears falling, blinding him.

He reached out with his right hand and at the lightest touch of fingers his mind went blank as every part of his fëa screamed with pain. But it wasn’t his pain he was feeling, it was the pain of every one of his victims — the pain, the fear, the horror, the utter despair that was their last conscious thought before all thoughts fled to Mandos’ Halls, or beyond. He collapsed to his knees, his hand still in Námo’s grip and then he was vomiting, or thought he was.

Waves of nausea hit him and his fëa responded in kind. He leaned over and gagged and it seemed as if great gobs of darkness spewed out of his mouth in uncontrollable spasms that lasted for an eternity. When he finally came to himself, he saw that nothing stained the floor beneath him. He looked up at the Lord of Mandos, pain and wonder warring in his eyes.

"You are beginning to experience the cost of your redemption, Cassalcarin," Námo explained. "You are reacting to what you were, what you became in the end. That you are sickened by what you have experienced here is all to the good."

"I-is it over, lord?" the Elf asked with some hope.

Námo smiled sadly and shook his head. "Nay, child. It has only just begun." He knelt down to place a comforting hand on the ellon’s forehead. "Rest now for a time."

"No... no, please, my lord... let it be finished now," Cassalcarin cried, his weeping making his words hard to understand. "I am damned... I know I am... not even Eru... I don’t deserve to be forgiven... I can’t...."

He continued crying and Námo let him, stroking his hair but otherwise offering no other comfort. He knew what must come and he ached for this Child, soon to be forever lost. He felt his Atar’s loving embrace, supporting him, giving him encouragement to see this through to the end. He felt, too, how tenderly Eru held Cassalcarin, though the Elf was unaware of it.

"Very well, Cassalcarin," Námo intoned as he stood up. "If it be thy wish, we will continue." Then his voice grew cold and implacable. "This is my Judgment and Eru’s Will. Forgiveness thou hast sought, but it is not for thee. Mercy shall be thy doom instead."

He grabbed the ellon’s hands and held them tightly. For a moment the ellon looked up in confusion where he knelt at the Vala’s feet and then his eyes widened as he saw beyond sight what was approaching. He screamed, a visceral primal scream that ripped through his fëa.

The Noldo screamed again, and again, struggling to free himself from Námo’s grip. The Lord of Mandos never let go. The Elf writhed with terror born of understanding of what price was to be paid for his sins. He had thought he wanted forgiveness, though he feared what he deserved was punishment. He was right about that, but wrong about the nature of the punishment. Forgiveness would not be his, but Mercy would be.

There could be no forgiveness he realized at the last, for Forgiveness implied Judgment, Judgment implied Restitution, and no amount of restitution could ever satisfy his debt. No judgment, no forgiveness and no restitution. Only Mercy was left, though it be merciless in the execution of its authority.

As implacable as a summer storm, and as relentless, it approached. Mercy, terrible in its beauty, came leaping across the Ages and the Abyss to embrace him. It washed over him in a dark green wave and he drowned in a sea of Love that was so deep he could never reach its depths nor find its heights. He screamed and screamed and screamed, every shudder destroying him over and over again, reshaping and rebirthing his fëa a thousand times over. Eru would have his due and it would be nothing short of his very Self. He was indeed lost, as Námo had warned. Lost. Irretrievably lost. And his final thought, before his mind shut down completely, was that he was glad....

****

The screaming finally died away, but Námo did not let go his grip until the final shudder swept through the ellon’s fëa and he became still. Then, he gently lifted Cassalcarin into his arms and strode to the galvorn door. For the first time since the Great Journey of the Eldar, Námo spoke a single Word and the great door opened, then silently closed behind him as he went through. No one within the Hall even noticed.

He made his way to the Halls of Healing and entered one of the sleeping chambers and settled into a rocking chair with the still unconscious ellon in his arms. Then he waited and as he waited he pondered what had taken place. He knew that forgiveness was forever out of reach for this Child, for any of those who dwelt in the Mar i-Estellóraron. What they had done, each in their own way, had been unforgivable, or so they thought. Forgiveness was out of reach, not because Eru decreed it so, but because they could not accept its consequences for themselves. Yet, while forgiveness was no longer an option for them, mercy was ever close at hand, if they only knew it.

Or perhaps they did and feared it more than mere forgiveness and judgment would entail, for mercy was undeserved and freely given, while forgiveness implied a need for punishment deserved. Cassalcarin had thought he wanted forgiveness. In the end, what he received instead was something far more terrifying.

"What will become of him, now, Atar?" Námo asked. What had happened, had never happened before. He was as much out of his depth as was Cassalcarin. He closed his eyes at the enormity of it all.

*That is for you to decide, my son. His fate is now in your hands.*

"But he can never be reborn while Arda lasts. Is he to be condemned to roam these empty halls alone until Arda is Renewed?"

*He will not be alone, child. You will be there, and your beloved spouse, as will your Maiar servants. Olórin, for instance. I think he would enjoy the challenge.* There was a hint of laughter in the Other’s tone.

"What challenge?" Námo asked, feeling perplexed.

*The challenge of helping you raise your son.*

"My what?" He opened his eyes in surprise.

Now the laughter was obvious. *Congratulations, best beloved, you’re an atto. Say hello to your newborn son.* And Námo looked down to see Cassalcarin staring up at him.

Or rather, someone was staring up at him. Námo realized with a start that the personality that had been known as Cassalcarin was no longer there and he felt inexplicably saddened by the loss.

*Do not be sad, my love. He whom you knew as Cassalcarin was never meant to exist, as you well know. That person was born in blood and terror on the shores of Valinor under the Darkening of the Trees. That person came into being beside the body of his first kill; the real personality, shattered by the horrors he had witnessed and participated in, was ruined beyond all recalling. Until now.*

Námo gasped at the implications. "You mean...?"

*My Other Children, in their innocence, would label poor Cassalcarin as having a ‘multiple personality disorder’, little understanding the true nature of what that means. The real Cassalcarin was lost during the Kinslaying at Alqualondë. I have simply retrieved him.*

Námo looked upon the ellon lying in his arms. The person who stared up at him was young. He smiled at the ellon. "Mai omentaina, yonya. Ni attotya ná."

"A-atto?" the voice quavered and Námo guessed the ellon could not be more than six or seven years old, if that.

"Yes, yonya, I’m your atto."

"I ’fwaid Atto," and tears began to fall from the ellon’s face.

"Hush now, my best beloved, there is nothing to fear."

"A-atto?" the ellon said through his tears.

"Yes, child?"

"Wh-what’s my name?"

Námo stifled a gasp. Had this Child been robbed even of his name? It was the one thing that every Elf who underwent Judgment retained, though they remembered nothing else about themselves.

*It is usually the custom for the atar to name his children*, came the amused voice of the One.

"But..."

*Hush, now, my love. A newborn deserves a new name, don’t you think?*

Námo considered Eru’s words. "This is my reward, isn’t it?"

*And are you not pleased, my child? You’re an atto now. Yours is the responsibility of raising your son up in the way that he must go, yours and Vairë’s. And perhaps someday he will have siblings.*

"But why...?"

*You thought your work was finished, that the only task left for you was to ferry the souls of my Other Children beyond the circles of Arda. Yet, as honorable a task as that might be, you felt that you had lost any real purpose and feared I would have no need for your service again, did you not?*

Námo nodded, closing his eyes. He had thought that way, if only a little, and was ashamed that he had faltered in his trust in the One, but Eru laughed and the Vala felt only love and understanding emanating from the Source of his Being.

*But now you see your true task has just begun, to help those trapped in the Mar i-Estellóraron to find their way past the galvorn door, one fëa at a time, beginning with this precious one in your arms. They can never leave Mandos until Arda is Remade, but if they can find their way into the Halls of Healing where Hope ever dwells that is not necessarily a bad thing, is it?*

"No, Atar, it is not. Thank you. Thank you for the gift of my son."

Eru laughed with great delight. *Don’t thank me yet, yonya. Wait until he becomes an adolescent.*

Námo chuckled, then opened his eyes to see Vairë kneeling beside him, smiling upon his son. Their son. He felt the other Valar taking a peek at the ‘new addition to the family’, as Varda was describing the ellon, while Manwë laughed and offered them his congratulations.

The ellon shrank against Námo’s arms as he saw Vairë, unsure who this person might be. She stroked his cheek and gave him a kiss.

"Mai omentaina, hinya. Ni emmetya ná."

"E-emmë?"

"Yes, my best beloved," Vairë. said, trying to comfort him with a smile, but it was obvious to them both that the ellon was still uncertain.

He looked up at Námo. "A-atto?"

"Yes, my little one, this is your emmë."

The ellon started crying again, disconsolate. "Wh-who am I, Atto? I not m-member my name."

*So what are you going to name your son?* The query came from Ilúvatar, but Námo could sense the other Valar waiting impatiently for his answer.

"Hush, now, sweetling. There’s no need for tears. Your name is Estel." It was the first name that came to mind, the Word he had spoken to unlock the door to the Mar i-Estellóraron.

Little Estel stopped crying and looked up at his atto with a teary smile. He snuggled further into Námo’s embrace. "E-estel... I Estel?"

"Yes, best beloved. You’re our Estel and Atto and Emmë love you very much." He kissed the ellon on the forehead and rocked him gently. Vairë drew forth a chair to sit beside him, stroking her child’s hair as she and Námo sang an ancient lullaby until their son fell into a healing sleep for the first time in over a hundred thousand years.

****

All words are in Quenya unless otherwise noted.

Mardi Envinyatiëo: Halls of Healing, reserved for those destined to be Reborn.

Mardi Winiron: Halls of Children, where the fëar of Elf children who die grow into adulthood before they are re-embodied.

Atar: Father.

Arda: The world; actually, our solar system.

Galvorn: (Sindarin) A black metal made from a meteorite devised by the dark Elf Eöl.

Mar i-Estellóraron: The Hall of Those Without Hope, reserved for those Elves never destined to be reborn until Arda is Renewed [estel ‘hope’ + -lóra ‘-less, without’ + -ron ‘plural genitive suffix’]. The name does not imply that there is no hope for those who dwell therein, only that those who do dwell there have lost all hope.

Ellith: (Sindarin) Plural of elleth: Female Elf.

Ellon: (Sindarin) Male Elf.

Cassalcarin: ‘Glorious helmet’ [cassa ‘hemet’ + alcarin ‘glorious’].

Á enyalë sí!: ‘Remember now!’

Fëanárioni: Sons of Fëanor.

Yéni: plural of yén: an elvish century of 144 solar years. The actual amount of time was 782 yéni or 112,608 solar years from the fall of Doriath in First Age 507.

Á cenë!: ‘See!’

Nómë i-Racineron: The Place of the Damned, literally ‘The Place of Those Who Are Cursed’.

Atto: Hypocoristic form of atar: Father.

Mai omentaina, yonya. Ni attotya ná: ‘Well met, my son. I am your papa’.

Mai omentaina, hinya. Ni emmetya ná: ‘Well met, my child. I am your mama.’.

Emmë: Hypocoristic form of amillë: Mother; variant of ammë.

Estel: Hope.

CONTEST: Power Play

SUMMARY: In any contest there is always a loser and a winner. One elf learns that losing is not necessarily a bad thing.

****

‘There you will be sung

you’ll be sung and chanted....

Until your hands cannot turn

until your feet cannot move.’

— The Kalevala, 3:45-50

They knew they were in trouble almost immediately when slavering wolves came out of the woods and surrounded them, forcing them to go west rather than north. To Tol-in-Gauroth they were brought and Finrod grimaced at the sight of his tower of Minas Tirith, now in the hands of Morgoth’s greatest and most evil lieutenant, Sauron. A miasma of evil veiled the island and none of them were unaffected, though Beren was the worst off.

Edrahil surreptitiously took the Mortal’s arm to keep him from stumbling. "Steady now," the Elf whispered. Beren could only nod, fighting with all his strength not to vomit and give them all away.

They were brought before Sauron in the great hall of the tower. This had always been a tower of guard but even so it had been of elvish make and so form and function blended in pleasing ways, making it less grim than a typical Mortal tower. Now, however, Finrod cringed inwardly at the decrepitude and ruin of what had once been fair. Tapestries that had graced the walls, lending both color and warmth, hung in tatters, their images faded with a film of filth. Bloodstains were splattered across the flagstones, and the Elves wondered grimly whose dead comrade’s blood they were treading upon.

"Ah..." Sauron made his presence known as he appeared sitting upon a throne of blood-darkened stone. The Elves steeled themselves, fearing what would come. Edrahil kept close to Beren, for Finrod’s captain saw the Mortal as the weak link. If anyone was going to break down before the Dark Maia it would be he. Edrahil’s nine companions kept close to them both while King Finrod stood in the front, confronting Sauron. Each of them prayed that the king’s enchantments hiding their true forms would hold under the terrible scrutiny of Morgoth’s Lieutenant.

The Maia stared at them for a long moment, doubt gnawing at him. His wolves surrounded these strange Orcs who had failed to come to him as was his command to bring him news of all their deeds. "So, what are your names?" he asked them suddenly. His voice was silky smooth, almost gentle, and its very gentleness sent shivers of dread up their spines. "Who is your captain?"

"Nereb and Dungalef and warriors ten, so we are called, and dark is our den under the mountains," Finrod replied in a raspy voice and the others looked upon him with wonder at the misdirected accuracy of their king’s words. "Over the waste we march on an errand of need and haste," Finrod added. "Boldog, our captain, awaits us there."

Sauron appeared to ponder Finrod’s reply and the Elves held their collective breaths. The Dark Maia shifted his weight upon the throne, resting his left elbow on its arm and holding his chin in his hand. "Boldog, I heard, was lately slain warring on the borders where Thingol and his folk cringe and crawl beneath elm and oak in drear Doriath. I find it rather strange that ye who claim to be hurrying to Boldog’s side are unaware of his death."

To that they had no answer. Finrod was at a loss for words that would allay Sauron’s suspicions. The Maia saved him the trouble. His demeanor became suddenly frigid as he straightened in his throne and glared at them with dark intent.

"Come," he demanded. "Whom do ye serve, Light or Mirk? Who is the maker of mightiest work? Who is the king of earthly kings, the greatest giver of gold and rings? Who is the master of the wide earth?" He stood now, his stance one of great imperiousness as a dark veil seemed to cover him, making him even more menacing than before.

"Repeat your vows, Orcs of Bauglir!: Death to light, to law, to love! Cursed be moon and stars above! May darkness everlasting old that waits outside in surges cold drown Manwë, Varda, and the sun! May all in hatred be begun, and all in evil ended be, in the moaning of the endless Sea!"

The Elves and Beren reeled at the force of Sauron’s will lapping against their own and the very sound of the oath was as a rotted corpse to their fëar — a cloying, sweet blasphemy from which they would have fled had they been able. Sauron resumed his seat, a faint smile on his still fair face. "Ye are not what ye appear, I deem. There is something… elvish about ye, a glamour I cannot pierce."

"We are but Orcs," Finrod said abjectly, hoping he sounded convincing, but fearing he wasn’t convincing enough.

Sauron shook his head. "I think not." Then his demeanor changed again and his eyes flamed with remembered starfire as he gazed upon them. Darkness, black and fell, surrounded them and through the pall of eddying smoke they saw only those eyes, mesmerizing and profound in their depravity. Instinctively, the Elves moved closer, keeping Beren in the center. Finrod never moved as Sauron began to Sing:

"Veils of enchantment will I pierce,

open before my eyes what hidden be,

revealing treachery, uncovering betrayal.

Let this glamour be undone…"

They all found themselves reeling, even Finrod, who regained his senses sooner than the others. Suddenly he began to counter Sauron’s magic with his own Song of Power:

"Let thy singing be stayed, all spells to resist.

Let secrets be kept with strength like a tower.

Let trust be unbroken, as we battle against power.

Changing and shifting of shape gives us leave

to escape to freedom,

elude snares and broken traps,

the prison ope’d, the chain snapped."

Edrahil motioned to his companions. "We must protect the Mortal from the energies that are being unleashed," he commanded, deciding that the combatants were no longer aware of anything but their contest so it was safe enough to speak thus. The wolves which had surrounded them had slunk away at the first note of their master’s Song, not wishing to be caught up in the maelstrom that was sure to follow.

Beren grimaced. "I am no babe who needs coddling…."

"Nay, mellon nîn," Edrahil said, "it is no slight against thee. Thy mortal frame was not meant to withstand such power. Thou canst not survive the forces that are being unleashed."

Beren nodded reluctantly and the Elves gathered even closer, forming a tight circle and shielding him whose coming to Nargothrond had brought them to this plight. They stood in silent awe as they witnessed a battle of Words between Sauron and their lord.

Backwards and forwards their Songs swayed. Sometimes Sauron had the upper hand and Finrod would reel and founder for a moment before gathering himself and fighting with more power, bringing to fore all the might and magic of Eldamar into his words. The room brightened to incandescence as the combatants unleashed their spells. From the deepest dungeon to the highest parapet their Songs were felt. Many an elven prisoner languishing in dungeon drear knew that something momentous was happening and wondered what it might portend.

Softly in the chthonic gloom they heard the birds singing in Nargothrond and the sighing of the sea beyond. And further still unto the West they heard the waves brush the pearl-strewn strands of Eldamar. Many of the Elves held in prison smiled at the images Finrod’s magic evoked.

Then the gloom gathered and the images grew darker, as Sauron sang of night falling on Valinor. Red blood flowed beside the sea where the Noldor slew the Falmari, stealing their swan ships from their lamplit havens. Even as Sauron sang the last note of betrayal and kinslaying, the wind rose to a wail and the wolves howled. There was a rumble of thunder that shook the very foundations of Minas Tirith and a vast roar nearly overwhelmed the Elves and Beren cowering in the hall.

Then, Finrod collapsed.

Suddenly their disguises melted away and they stood revealed in their own fair shapes. The elves cowered around Beren, hiding him, fearing what might happen should the Maia realize that the son of Barahir stood before him. Gazing triumphantly upon them, Sauron’s smile could only be called evil as he ordered his Orc guards to bind the prisoners and throw them into the deepest dungeon. One of the brutish creatures did not even bother to truss the still senseless Finrod, but grabbed his golden locks and hauled him away by his hair, laughing as he went....

****

"I failed them. I wasn’t strong enough," Finrod said dejectedly as he sat in one of the gardens of the Reborn. His arms were wrapped around his knees as he rocked himself, trying to find an elusive comfort. The memory of his battle with Sauron had come suddenly and without warning and he became hysterical, so much so that his Maiar attendants called upon their lord; Findaráto was too much for them to handle on their own.

Now he and the Lord of Mandos sat in an arbor as evening drew nigh and night blooming jasmine began to open and give off their sweet scent. Somewhere a nightingale sang a melancholy tune and crickets chirped around them. Finrod paid no heed to any of it, his eyes closed, his expression one of defeat.

Námo smiled sympathetically. "Your spells were not all unavailing, you know," he said gently.

Finrod opened his eyes to give the Vala a hard stare. "What do you mean? I lost."

The Lord of Mandos nodded. "From a certain perspective you did, and quite spectacularly I might add, but that is not what I meant."

"I don’t understand," Finrod said, looking equally puzzled and frustrated by the Vala’s words.

"Sauron never learned the names of any of you, nor did he ever discover your purpose. As much as he pondered and bethought the riddle you and Beren and the others in your party presented him, he could never learn the truth. In your Song did you not sing thus?" Námo closed his eyes and Sang:

"Let secrets be kept with strength like a tower.

Let trust be unbroken, as we battle against power...."

Finrod went still and even the nightingale ceased its warbling as the Vala sang. His voice was beautiful beyond endurance and though Námo Sang only that much and no more, Finrod felt as if he had been given an immeasurable gift and he could feel tears coursing down his cheeks unheeded. All he could do was nod.

"You wove into your Song strength and endurance to remain steadfast in resolve against evil and your companions benefitted from it," Námo said. "To the very end, none betrayed you and Beren. I would think that is something of which to be proud."

Finrod sighed, still looking downcast. "They must hate me," he whispered.

"Who?" Námo asked in surprise, not expecting such a statement.

"Edrahil and the others," Finrod answered.

"They do not hate you, Child, nor did they ever blame you. Beren, perhaps, they blamed but their oaths to you forbade them to betray him, for to do so would be to betray you, and that they would never do."

Silence stretched between them as the night deepened. A breeze wafted through the arbor, caressing Finrod’s locks. Finally he looked up at the Vala who sat in a patience born of eternity. "I lost," he reiterated.

Námo nodded. "And won, for in your losing you gained a second chance at Life, you and your ten liegemen. In the end, it matters not that you lost, it only matters that you lost well, that you strove against evil and did not succumb to it."

Finrod nodded and then sought the comfort of Námo’s embrace. "It was so terrible...." he started to say, but Námo hushed him.

"I know," he said quietly as he gently rocked him, "but it’s over now and you’re safe." He softly began singing an ancient lullaby as the heavens above turned indigo. Varda’s stars blossomed forth and Isil rose out of the Sea. Tilion looked down from his great height at the erstwhile King of Nargothrond sleeping in the arms of the Lord of Mandos and smiled.

‘From time to time in the eyeless dark

two eyes would grow, and they would hark

to frightful cries, and then a sound

of rending, a slavering on the ground,

and blood flowing they would smell.

But none would yield, and none would tell.’

—Lay of Leithian, 7: 2232-37

****

Bauglir: (Sindarin) A name for Morgoth meaning ‘the Constrainer’.

Falmari: (Quenya) ‘Wave-folk’; a name of the Teleri.

Note: Much of this, particularly the oath Sauron demands of Finrod and his companions, is adapted from The Lay of Leithian, Canto VII, ll. 2080-2237, found in The Lays of Beleriand, HoME III.