Halls of Waiting by StarSpray

Chapter 1

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Being dead was strange. Dior remembered his life clearly still, but all of the things that had seemed so important had lost their urgency. His part was ended. He drifted through the vast halls, through throngs of other spirits who for the most part paid him no heed. There were Men and Elves and Dwarves. Many of the Men were moving steadily through the halls toward a doorway that Dior could not see but knew was there, somewhere at the far end. The Elves were going in no particular direction; many of them were not moving at all. The Dwarves were making their way somewhere, too, but not to the same door as the Men.

Dior remained where he was, watching the spirits move around him. Some he thought were familiar, echoes of faces and forms he had known in life. He looked, too, at the walls of the great halls, stretching on and on and turning into other halls and rooms and corridors, not unlike Menegroth, but on a scale that he did not think his living mind could have comprehended. They were luminous, hung with hundreds, with hundreds of thousands of tapestries, all in vivid color. Either they made their own light, or they caught and reflected back the starlight from overhead a hundredfold. For there was no roof to the hall, and Dior found himself gazing up for what he thought must have been a very long time at the stars, whose brilliance and patterns were unfamiliar to him, not at all the stars that he had so loved in Beleriand, or that had sparkled on the waters of Lanthir Lamath the night his daughter had been born.

At the thought of Elwing he turned from the stars and moved toward the tapestries, seeing in them depicted the whole history of the world. The first tapestry he came to depicted, by chance or by design, his own death and the final fall of Menegroth. It was strange—and more troubling than he would have thought—to see himself, and his own death, depicted in Vairë's threads. The images seemed to be moving, and Dior felt the blade thrust that had killed him even as he watched his thread-self fall, red silk spilling out about him.

But that was nothing compared to the horror that rose in him upon seeing Nimloth also slain, and their sons, their precious boys, dragged out and left in the snow. He turned away, unable to bear seeing what became of them, or of Elwing—and he found himself face to face with Celegorm, or at least as close as one could get when no one had bodies or faces. Everything was impressions, except the halls themselves. He thought he could sense his own horror reflected back at him in Celegorm, but Dior fled before there could be any confrontation. He wanted to find Nimloth. She would be here, somewhere, surely.

Instead he found himself alone, in an empty portion of the Halls, where the tapestries were dark blue and dotted with silver threads for stars. It was quiet, and after a time that quiet brought with it calm. And Dior began to wonder what he was supposed to do—for he was neither fully Elf nor Man.

He wandered back out into the halls, finding the Men and following them down the long corridors. There was a doorway at the very end, beyond which Dior could not see although it was open, an archway of pale and luminous stone. He stood by and watched the Men pass through. Most did not linger at all. Some waited only long enough for a friend or a loved one to join them, so they could walk through the door hand in hand—as his parents had done, Dior knew.

Dior Halfelven. Dior turned to find a shimmering figure at his side. Do not go yet, they said.

Why? Dior asked, though he had not intended to go. He wanted to find Nimloth first—and he would not go and let his children find their way alone.

My master would have you linger a while, said the figure.

It was easy enough to comply with that. Can you take me to my wife?

Certainly. Come.

Nimloth was in a part of the halls where the tapestries were green, and there were green banners criss-crossed over their heads so that the starlight was tinged with green, as well, and it had the feeling of a deep wood. They were not alone, but the other spirits there kept to themselves. As Dior followed his guide he felt as though there were more than mere tapestries to line the walls, that there were trees and the ground was covered in ferns and moss and grass, all as insubstantial-and-yet-real as he was himself. And beneath one of these trees, almost invisible. Only because he knew her and loved her so well did Dior know that she was there. In life she would have been curled up among the roots, her silver hair falling over her face to hide her tears. Dior curled up with her, their spirits tangling together like vines. They didn't speak; it was comfort enough just to be together. Dior had not realized until then how weary he was.

A few minutes later or a hundred years—Dior was not at all certain how time passed in this place—someone else came to them. This time it was no mere Maia, but Námo himself. He said nothing, but gestured for them to rise and follow him. They did, going back to the large hall with the storied tapestries. Námo led them to one that appeared newer than the others, still rippling as though it had just been placed upon the wall. It depicted what Dior knew must be the Ring of Doom in Valinor, for there was Námo there, and Manwë, and Ulmo and all the others, sitting and surrounding a small pair of figures, one bright and one dark.

Eärendil, the son of Tuor of the House of Hadar, and of Idril daughter of Turgon, intoned Námo, his voice deep and resonant as a great bell being rung somewhere far below the earth. And Elwing, your daughter. Together they have brought into the West the Silmaril won by Beren and Lúthien. In answer to their pleas we shall march forth to wage war once and for all against Melkor. He paused, and then said, To them and to their kin Manwë has pronounced this doom: that you shall choose freely for yourself to which kindred your fate shall be joined, and under which you shall be judged. Dior Eluchíl, should you choose the fate of Men, you will not leave these halls but by the door you have already seen. Should you choose the fate of the Eldar, that door will be closed to you.

What did Elwing choose? Nimloth asked before Dior could speak. What has become of our sons?

Elwing has chosen the fate of the Elves, as has Eärendil. As for Eluréd and Elurín… Námo gestured, his hand a pale glimmer in his wide dark sleeve, and another tapestry was revealed to them, of a trio of Elves in a sunny river valley, living and laughing together. Dior did not know the woman, but he could see clearly Eluréd and Elurín, grown now from little boys to tall and dark-haired men. When the time comes, they will be given this same Choice.

It was hardly a choice at all. I shall be counted among the Elves, Dior said firmly.

So you shall be. With those words, Námo inclined his head, and then he was gone, leaving Nimloth and Dior before the tapestries. Dior felt no different, but when he looked down the hall he could not see the doorway that he knew was there, though he could see Men still drifting away towards it.

And he was still so weary. And there were things he had yet to do in these halls, he knew without needing to be told. But there was time, and Nimloth was with him. They retreated again from the histories to the green hall of dreamed up trees, to rest in the quiet stillness.