Vairë's Tapestries by Fiondil

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Beyond the Galvorn Door

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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.