A Quiet Life by rawr_balrog

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Chapter 1

Maedhros in the Halls of Mandos.

Thank you, Oshun, for betaing!

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The Valar had finally had mercy on those souls retained after death in the War of Wrath, and released even some of the guiltiest to build new lives in Aman. They did not tell Maitimo this, but it seemed the release had been going on for some time. The process was surprisingly straightforward; the only pertinent communication came from Námo, a solemn admonition to seek no power in life. The Halls of Waiting had grown emptier since the closure of the straight road, anonymous figures vanishing unmarked from the halls, until all those left had committed the most heinous crimes, wished to remain, or, like him, were bound by the last barbed tendrils of a blasphemous oath.

When it came time for Maitimo to leave, he had grown used to the echoing peace of the nearly empty halls. He had most recently taken up residence before a large picture window in a high tower, one which boasted sweeping and unobstructed views of Valinor. As the dead needed no sustenance, Maitimo remained in place for days at a time, watching the sun crawl over the horizon only to disappear beyond his vantage, tracing constellations as they wheeled overhead. In fact, by the time the inclination appeared in his mind that he could leave, he had been there so long that he had begun to wonder if he had not without realizing slipped into a dream that matched perfectly to waking.

When leaving the halls first occurred to him, he dismissed it out of hand as an impossible daydream, arising from a need for more stimulating occupation. Instead, he returned to the same window, peering down to a lower precipice upon which a family of hawks had taken up roost. The eggs had hatched while he was not paying attention. A shame to have missed it, he thought, but at least he could watch them grow and possibly return next season. Currently, the eyasses were pink, shriveled things, with only the barest of feathers visible on their wings. They lay together in a pile, tiny lungs heaving, paper thin eyelids closed in sleep over bulging eyeballs. The parents, though likely nearby, were nowhere to be found.

He wondered why a newly mated pair would take up nesting on one of the highest exposed crevices outside the halls of the dead. They certainly had not been there last spring, or the one before, or any before that within his recollection. In fact, now that he considered it, though he had spent countless days staring out over the landscape, he hadn’t seen any birds at all save for those serving the Valar. Nothing so much as a beetle had alighted on a window pane in this place. Now two mated raptors had built a home and borne young there.

Ultimately, the question of the nest vexed him so much that he left the bower with the great window for the first time in weeks. Death had made him less social than he had been in life, and ever since his traumatized soul had passed the threshold, he had been more or less content to wander and watch in utter silence. This was characteristic of most others that he had observed. Even those few Maiar within the halls, serving or dead, respected the pall of quiet that shrouded all within. Maitimo was not actually sure that he could speak, having never actually attempted the feat since he incinerated his vocal cords along with everything else.

He shrugged the thought away adjusted the neck of his tunic before stepping carefully out of the room. It was white and practical, with billowing sleeves and ties at the collar that, when left open, exposed his collarbone. Since the dead suffered under no extremes of temperature, the light, airy fabric worked just as well as any. In fact, he generally didn’t notice the temperature at all. He had floated for years at a time, seemingly ignorant that such a concept existed. Now the stone floor was cold under his bare toes. Another peculiarity. Was collecting them his new pastime?

Maitimo padded carefully down the hall, ears pricked for the faint noise of life (or un-life, as it were) but found no sign of the other inhabitants until he had made his way all the way down to the ground floor, through the great center hall. He finally found them down a corridor on the other side, in a smallish study hidden behind one of many tapestries.

It wasn’t a room he had ever explored before. He had not actually done much exploring, to be perfectly honest. His surroundings had slid past him, unremarked and unremarkable. Now, however, it was as if he were seeing the keep with eyes for the first time. The study was warm, decorated with rich reds and dark stained wood. A great desk stood to one side, and before it, a sitting area with several plush chairs. Surrounding all of it, bookshelves that rose the full height of the room, and a tracked ladder to access the topmost shelves. He stepped quietly into the room and pulled a text at random from a shelf immediately to his right Sure enough, all the pages had been cut.

He frowned, considering the text in front of him. It was a volume of poetry written by someone he had never heard of, in a hand he did not recognize. The pages were well-worn, not dog-eared, but in some places well-loved. On those pages it fell easily open in his hand, ink smudged where fingertips had lingered too long. He brought it close to his face. It smelled like musty vellum, yellow paper, ink, and dust, like hours in his father’s library with only Káno and their tutor for company.

Had there always been libraries here?

Maitimo closed the book reverently. He slid it back into place on the shelf before stepping the rest of the way into the room. The sitting area in the center of the room was currently home to three people. Two of them leaned shoulder to shoulder over the table in the center. The third had his back to the door. One had extended his hand over a large leaf of parchment, and sketched something for the others in broad, sweeping charcoal. He watched silently for a few minutes. Two had dark hair, one silver. Two males and one female. They chattered quietly, indicating and debating figures that Maitimo couldn’t see.

Finally, one of them looked up. “Nelyo!” he said. His deep voice, after centuries of silence, seemed to Maitimo to fill the whole universe. Before he could fathom a reply, all three of them got to their feet. It was his brother who had spoken, accompanied by his father, and someone else with a familiar face.

“Nelyafinwë,” said his father, his voice as terrible and clear as it had always been. He had the same diaphanous white clothing of the dead. Fëanáro was regal as ever, if somehow reduced in spirit.

“Curufinwë,” Maitimo said simply. “Atar.” His throat felt as thick and tired his mind and heart. Unpracticed. He gulped against it, and looked over the third person. She had silver hair that fell in waves down her back, flint-like gray eyes, and the same bearing. Her gown was dark blue with gold trim. He had never met her. “Grandmother?” he tried.

“Maitimo,” she answered. She nodded graciously, but otherwise withheld from moving.

His younger brother did not move either, except to cross his arms over his chest, seeming to study Maitimo’s bearing. He had a dirty white tunic and leather trousers, and a thick leather apron. Forge clothes, Maitimo realized. Not dead clothes. Finally, his brother’s expression tilted into half a grin, cocky and relieved. “Nelyo,” he said again, seeming to relish the opportunity. “I was wondering how long you would take.”

“I’m sorry?” said Maitimo blankly. Nelyo. He wondered which was correct, under the circumstances. “How long for what?”

“Never you mind,” said Curufinwë. “It has been too long, brother. I am glad we can finally speak to one another, if briefly.”

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

Fëanáro had also crossed his arms, nearly a mirror to his son, though his expression was inscrutable. He did not answer.

“Improving the loom,” said Curufinwë vaguely, glancing between his companions.

Silence fell between them. “How might we assist you?” said his grandmother Míriel at last. She had a kinder face than her son, now that he thought to notice it. One hand was extended, grasping Fëanáro’s white-clad shoulder. Her other hand remained at her side, slender fingers flexed as if she wished to extend her other hand to her stranger-grandson, though he could not fathom why.

“The dead require nothing,” Maitimo said. His voice seemed to claw its way out of a mire. Curufinwë and Fëanáro looked at one another, but he could not read their expressions.

“All the same,” said Míriel. She squeezed her son’s shoulder and then stepped forward, angling her body toward him welcomingly. She was lovely, thought Maitimo, in a statuesque kind of way. She leaned forward and grasped Maitimo’s hand in both of her own. Hers were cool like the stone and uncalloused. “I am glad to meet you at last, grandson.” She continued, her tone friendly and quiet. “I am glad to have finally met my grandsons, though I regret that it had to be here.”

“Well, where else would it be?” said Fëanáro suddenly, a sharp edge of bitterness coloring his voice. It was deep, like Curufinwë’s. Maitimo had forgotten how similar the two of them truly were.

“Atar,” said Curufinwë chidingly. Fëanáro did not say anything else, so Curufinwë turned his attention again to Maitimo, adopting a somewhat friendlier expression, insofar as he was capable of producing one. “Nelyo,” he said again. “I am glad to see you at last. What brings you here?”

Maitimo considered. He remembered the nest, and his growing restlessness. “The stones,” he finally said. “Have they always been so cold?”

At once, all of their attention turned to his feet. Slender ankles and bare toes peeked out from white cotton trousers, pale and cold looking against the dark stone. Slowly, their eyes traveled up his legs, and after considering his whole person, returned to his face. Maitimo could not decide whether to shrink or straighten under their scrutiny.

“Well,” said Curufinwë, “of course it changes according to the season. I suppose you never noticed?”

“I suppose not.” He shrugged, and then crossed both arms, casting his gaze about. There were no windows in this room, which, being situated too far in the interior, had no outer wall. All three were staring at him in a way he found vaguely condescending. Maitimo resolved to ignore it and cast about for a different subject. “And I suppose, this being death, that no living creatures make their homes in or about the keep?”

Míriel smiled, the polite, practiced expression of a woman of court. “What prompts the inquiry, grandson?”

Maitimo frowned. Curufinwë had said something quietly to their father again. The latter barely acknowledged it, attention fixed on Maitimo himself instead.

“Perhaps you never noticed,” said Míriel with the same guarded smile. She squeezed his hand again, and then let it go and stepped back.

“Perhaps I did not,” he agreed equitably, and then straightened and stepped back toward the door. “Perhaps I shall return to my window, and continue noticing such things.”

“It was very lovely to meet you,” she said.

This meeting was quickly becoming strange. Maitimo had the sense that he had walked in on something kept intentionally apart from him. Letting the idea go, he turned silently and closed the distance between himself and the threshold, pausing only to stroke the binding of the book of poetry. It occurred to him that it could not be removed from this room, were he of a mind to read it. It was a shame, but his self-assigned watch post had until now been diverting enough to pass the months. If it began to bore him, he could always explore the view of another tower.

Before he left the room, another voice called him. “Nelyo.” Maitimo turned. It wasn’t Curufinwë, but instead his father. He had an awkward bearing, as if some tide of sentiment had welled up inside him, and he just barely remained afloat.

“Atar,” Maitimo said simply.

Fëanáro stared at him, expression flickering. His dark hair was a smudge of shadow in the sourceless light of the study room. Finally, he said, “Are you hungry?”

Maitimo blinked. “No,” he said. “Of course not. The dead need no sustenance.”

There was a short pause. “Of course,” said Fëanáro. “But if you change your mind.” Maitimo just stared at him, so he shrugged and dismissed the topic. “It was good to see you once, Nelyo.”

Maitimo hesitated. “It has certainly been a long time.” He had never been good at dissembling, and it did not escape his father’s notice. Fëanáro straightened and became more stern, as if bracing himself against a strong wind. For the first time, Maitimo felt vaguely guilty about this, and grimaced. “I apologize,” he said. “I will of course see you again, now that I know where to find you.”

Fëanáro smiled bitterly. “No,” he said, “I do not think you will.” He looked over his shoulder to his other son, who nodded encouragingly. “Goodbye, Nelyo.”

Maitimo frowned, but nodded in turn, and extended a hand in greeting. “Farewell, then. Atar, Curufinwë, Grandmother.”

Fëanáro stepped back, closer to the others. Curufinwë smiled more genuinely. “Until next time, Nelyo. Now get going already. You have things to do.”

With that, the spell was over. Maitimo turned and quietly left, the tapestry quietly unfurling behind him to cover the doorway. Once returned to the corridor, the whole keep suddenly seemed hollow. If he had noted its emptiness earlier, leaving company behind him forced him to comprehend it. The corridor stretched on in both directions, with no movement and no light, and no life noises to fill them. Was that how this place functioned? Did every soul have a room of his own in which to ponder? Did some souls get libraries, some dungeons, some bowers with great windows in order to observe what he would never have? How were the rooms assigned?

He had been honest when he stated his intention to return to his window, and had left the warm study behind to seek it out. However, the restlessness and curiosity that had motivated him had not let him go, and he now found the idea of returning distasteful. He had watched a thousand moons rise and vanish, a thousand suns, and a thousand golden summers tumble into autumn. At one time, he had thought he could sit there content until the breaking of the world. At once, Maitimo was sure that he could not. How could he, when who knew which souls were hidden behind tapestries and doorways? What other hidden libraries, clues to the outside world?

It was curious, he thought. Until this instant, the outside world, the living one, had never existed beyond the abstract. He had watched seasons turn, fields blossom and decay, and the cycle of unchanging stars, but it had been as if observing a demonstrative model. He could see the shapes of farmland and towns, but people had not lived there. They had been one component of a tiny, decorative replica of a world he had long forgotten. Before, he had wandered past a hundred different souls, but they had all been faceless. Now he wondered if they too, like Curufinwë, Fëanáro and Míriel, had identities of their own. Had they returned to life already?

Which else of his loved ones had he already encountered, only to dismiss unmarked? What kind of lives had they led in his absence?

Standing as he was in the Halls of Waiting, Maitimo theorized that these images recorded history, both his own and that which came after. The tapestries themselves were ceaseless. Nearly every bare inch of stone around him was covered, disregarding the ceiling and floor. One after another, in no particular order, on and on until oblivion, each one so poignantly realistic that Maitimo thought if he stepped forward, he might tumble through one and into the sea. Before him, waves broke on an alien shore and a rocky cliffside. Atop it, right at the edge and nearly invisible, stood the minuscule figure of a man. Then a man on his knees clutching a broken sword, waiting for death. After that, a windswept plain. After that, an outstretched hand over a chasm of fire. Then his own chasm of fire. And the deluge of Beleriand, and then ten others of anonymous strangers in seemingly domestic situations. Findekano’s lifeless form. A bloody sword and broken harp strings. A winged crown. On and on and on.

Maitimo barely stopped before each one, before alighting on the next and rushing forward. Some were scenes he knew, he remembered. Some seemed as if they had come from his own perspective. Others he could see himself, a copper smudge in the background of a larger image. Some had clearly come after his death. Some he lacked context for entirely. He followed them down corridors and around corners. He traced the perimeters of large halls and small entertaining rooms, only acknowledging his surroundings sufficiently to avoid tripping over furniture or to find the next one. As he moved, the light around him grew dimmer, until the only light came from sconces on the walls. Taking one of them in hand, he continued, not remarking upon the passage of time.

Finally, the threads of history led him to the end of his path. When he looked up from the final weaving (a dead tree with a single living bloom, surrounded by sparse white stone and a blue sky) he found himself before a great set of doors. They were sturdy and dark, made from the same dark wood as the desk had been, but stretching from the stone floor almost to the vaulted ceiling.

Maitimo considered only for a moment, before testing his strength against them. They swung outward easily, unlatched already, soundlessly and without resistance. He followed the arc of the door, and found himself in a great courtyard surrounded by high stone walls. There were no trees here, and no plant life at all save for some climbing ivy in the corners. Atop the walls, some banners caught in the wind. The sky was dark, but in a shallow, soft way that implied the approaching dawn.

He made his way carefully across the courtyard. The small lantern he had removed from the bracketed sconce was near to dying, but he held it in front of him anyway, stepping slowly in bare feet. The stone out here had been warmed by sunlight, and even after a long night, was still warmer than it had been within the keep. It would probably be cooler again on the outside, on dirt paths and a lawn coated with dew.

The walls surrounding the keep were broken by another heavy wooden door, this one blacker than all the others, and more forbidding. Before it stood a tall, pale figure, imposing in stature and eerily familiar.

“Maedhros,” he said, his voice full of portent, but not doom.

“My lord,” he answered. “Námo.”

Námo did not move, except to regard Maedhros more carefully. A long silence stretched between them as Námo searched him. Finally, the lord of Mandos stepped aside from the door. “Seek not power in life,” he said, “nor influence, nor birthright. They are no longer yours to claim.”

“So shall it be,” said Maedhros. The words slammed something shut, like a bolt. He stepped forward, and Námo remained aside, regarding, but not hindering.

He pushed open the final gate stepped through. Beyond it opened a long, winding path into a bare plain. Far beyond it, mountains, and above them, the living stars.