Gone with the Wind by Sleepless_Malice

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Haunting Dreams

Chapter Summary: Irmo requested an audience with Manwë and pays him a visit in Ilmarin to obtain council from the King of Arda, whilst Glorfindel slowly begins to discover his own fate during Gondolin’s fall.

[Beta Chapter 01] - Thank you ilinnare for plot discussion and advice and SomewhatByronically for beta reading this chapter

[Quenya Names]

• Glorfindel – Laurefindil/ Laure
• Fëanor – Fëanáro
• Fingolfin – Ñolofinwë
• Idril – Itarillë
• Turgon – Túrukáno
• Maeglin - Lómion
• Gondolin - Ondolindë
  

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Chapter 01 - Haunting Dreams

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Ilmarin upon Taniquëtil

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From the heights of long forgotten lands the wind came running, gliding over the plains that lay before the mountain ridge, its arm following the command of only one. His fingers traced unseen the fate of all, spreading his arms wide over the world itself. As the mountains rose, the wind rose with them, leaping against the ore-rich stone that led to incredible heights.

High aloft upon Mount Taniquëtil, the mighty King of Arda, Manwë and his spouse Varda resided, shimmering clouds wavering around the blinding white palace of Ilmarin that shone against the blue sky from afar. Up there in the highest peaks, it reached freezing temperatures already, but no snow fell from the silvery clouds that decorated the sky. Not yet at least, but it would not take long anymore. Up and up the stairs led, and further upwards still until it felt as if the clouds were within reach, as all lay still beneath them.

The days drew long in Manwë’s vast halls that were towering high above Tirion upon Túna and Ingwë’s breathtaking castle; the intricate temple of which the Lord of the Winds was so pleased with. The world moved on around him, whispered words of death and horror reached his ears, but his halls persisted, no matter what dark storm would grow in the far lands.

So it always was, so it had ever been.

Lord of the Winds, Súlimo - the breath of Arda he was named, divine ruler in Ilúvatar’s stead, the Elder King - mighty and fair, wise and noble, righteous too, although this had been heavily debated among those Námo had named the insolent and thankless First Born.

Despite the foul and accusing words that had been spoken many millennia ago, Manwë still had pity for the elves who had turned their backs to the Blessed Realm; ‘Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean, brood of Morgoth or bright Vala,’ Fëanáro had cried in his blind rage, gathering his sons and other followers around him ‘Eru Allfather! To the everlasting Darkness doom us if our deed faileth. On the holy mountain hear in witness and our vow remember, Manwë and Varda!’ [1]

And thus the proud son of Finwë had sealed their final fate.

The words Námo had spoken on the northern shores as Fëanáro and his followers departed, echoed endlessly in the Vala’s head, the doom, which had sealed their final fate: ‘Tears unnumbered ye shall shed; and the Valar will fence Valinor against you. On the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also. The Dispossessed shall they be for ever.’ [2]

“The Dispossessed shall they be for ever,” he repeated, and although the elf was not Fëanorian, nor had he sworn the forsaken words in Tirion upon Túna, he had lamented against the Lords of the Wests, spoken of thralldom, just like Fëanáro had done before his first banishment. That the elf’s motives had been different still, only he, the Elder King, would ever know.

Long had Manwë contemplated with himself how to proceed with the situation he was faced; in fact he had barely rested ever since the golden-haired elf had set foot into Námo’s dark and endless Halls of Waiting.

His final fate, however, was not at his will.

Nothing in the world happened without the Lord of the Wind knowing of it, and often, Manwë wished he would not see what exactly would come to pass, what perils awaited the first born children of Ilúvatar. To know the bitter truth was not always pleasant affair, the Lord of the Winds had learned many millennia ago. Every day, and every night he wished he had not unlocked the heavy chains of steel that had been bound around Melkor’s wrists and ankles.

Month after month passed, the nuances of the Great Music unfolding before him as it always had been, but within the divine music his own incapability and sadness mingled, as melancholic memories of a long forgotten past resurfaced. Long had he indeed avoided the unavoidable subject - until the Master of Desires requested an audience in his halls.

 

 

“My Lord,” Irmo announced himself as the entered the seemingly endless hall, bowing before the King of Arda and his herald who stood beside his impressive throne. ”I thank thee for granting me a visit, much do I desire to speak with thee.”

“So I have heard,” Manwë gestured towards a nearby table as he slowly descended upon his throne.

His silken clothing flowed about him as if the material was light as air, the flickering torch light catching itself in the silver threads that were carefully woven through the blue fabric. With innate grace, he stepped forward in an unhurried manner. “Come hither and take thy seat. What lies so heavily upon thy heart that thou shalt seek my council? Discourse,” he said, a regal authority accompanying his words.

Rare indeed had Irmo’s visits to his halls had become, and although Manwë already knew the answer to his question, he wished to hear it aloud.

Gracefully, Irmo took the seat that was offered. “The elf I have taken care of on my brother’s behalf,” he began, studying the other’s face closely. For moments, Irmo believed, he saw a little twitch in the Lord’s otherwise emotionless expression, but when he looked again, nothing of it was to be seen anymore.

“As much I have assumed already,” Manwë told him with mastered indifference. Lately much among the Ainur’s discourse was about the elf who now had taken residence in Irmo’s garden, a reality he had cowered before until it finally became unavoidable. “Go on, then, Master of Dreams.”

Such strict words came somewhat as surprise for Irmo, and he could not help but wonder. “I would not have come, my Lord, if the situation was not so grave.”

“No, indeed would’st thou have not,” responded Manwë – long had the plans for the elf unfolded before him, and he knew the warrior had yet to fulfill a much greater task than most elves on Arda’s soil could imagine.

Whether he liked the plans or not, it did not matter and he would not speak about his own thoughts. “But enough of flattery and fine words, now. What is it that troubles thee? Speak plainly, as my time is limited.” Authority enwrapped each word that spilled from the Vala’s lips, an authority that would make most flinch and cower, but Irmo’s steady gaze persisted.

“If I must, I will,” the Master of Dreams began with a brief nod. “The reason why I have come to consult thee is this, hark now: his state is unchanged, my Lord. We had hoped that he would recover once being in my care, but oddly I seem to fail. Deep are his mental wounds and his internal struggle seems to be beyond my power. Thou may have seen parts of his upcoming fate I assume?”

Manwë answered with a nod, and then, Irmo continued. “We need him, if not immediately, at one point we will, for the sake of all people that dwell on Arda’s soil. Dark days are looming, a storm gathering in a land far away. Believe me thus: often and continuous I have tried my luck; alas! He refuses to discourse with me, he barely eats – his once sparkling eyes are dull, lifeless even, his mind reeling in the past.”

To both Irmo and Estë, the elf in their care had always remained a strange mystery, and never before had he or Námo met one so defiant, so hard to break in his will. Everything in their might they have tried, combined forces from time to time - without accomplishing anything for the better.

Manwë frowned at the words that he was told, this was certainly not what he had wished to hear, although he had already feared it. The elf had always had a very strong will of his own, no one knew it better than himself. On this affair, however, he remained quiet; something that had come to pass many millennia ago did not matter now as something greater was on their agenda.

The question was dispensable, Manwë knew, but he voiced it nevertheless. “Your dreams…, your spouse’s skill?”

Irmo shook his head, “Despite my title as Master of Dreams and Illusions, they fail their cause on the elf. Believe me, I have surpassed myself with the imaginations I have granted him; a happy life in a secluded valley beneath mountain ridges, the soft sound of waves against the beaches, the chirping of birds that would be a pleasant constant in his life once he is re-embodied. When Námo sent him into my sanctuary, hope remained that his mental wounds would heal as had his flesh, but it seems we have both been mistaken. The elf appears to be internally broken to an extent we both could not fathom, unable to be cured by our powers alone, drowning in his miserable state of grief and self-pity. Plainly speaking – we are at loss of how to proceed and require your help.”

At Irmo’s words some rather unpleasant emotions flickered across Manwë’s face, but with the same swiftness as they have arisen, he had concealed them, masking his face in long trained indifference once more.

Yet, that he, of all beings at Ilúvatar’s will should cure the elf’s broken soul was a sad irony in itself, and the Elder King was not sure if he could ever succeed. Try he would, however, success was most dependent on the elf himself; guidance he could offer, but the stubborn child must listen – and act.

The following matter to discuss was a fickle one, and it was not the first time he had approached it, however, Námo had been his vocal opponent then, an opponent that would not heed his advice. “Does he know what happened after the White City fell?”

For Manwë, who still pitied the elves’ fate, to speak about Ondolindë’s fall felt as if his heart would scatter into a thousand pieces, the hidden city, glooming white against the sky; their sanctuary, which Túrukáno had built in secret after Ulmo had given him a divine vision. For many centuries the elves had been granted a life free of sorrow and turmoil – until betrayal from their own rows had led to Melkor’s deadly assault.

Once a splendid and striving city, nothing but ash and ruins remained, the dead bodies of many inhabitants buried beneath it.

“Nay,” for a moment Irmo paused, considering his words, as Arda’s King with all his might and power had always remained a fragile mystery to him. “Námo had never allowed him to see his very end and so I did not, either, following the guidance my brother had offered me.”

Much he had assumed, although he had hoped for the better.

“I am not speaking of his violent death, nor the death of his friends and family,” Manwë replied equally considerate; showing the elf his brutal death just right away was certainly not the wisest choice, but something had to happen, otherwise the elf would linger for an eternity in his obscure state of mind. “Rather than death I am speaking of life, Irmo. About Itarillë and Tuor’s escape, and the rescue of his own body from the abyss.”

Again, Irmo shook his head before the Lord of the Winds, wondering if his brother’s advice should have been doubted by himself. “I doubt that he knows anything about it. My brother,” Irmo added, but was interrupted by words and a dismissive stare.

“Thou art responsible for his fate now, dost not forget this. Námo knows that I have a different view on this, I always had and thus I have told him on several occasions. Strictly speaking, I do not deem it wise to withhold this precious information from the elf, however, meddling in other’s affairs is not in my nature, so I refrained and let the matter rest on your brother’s behalf. And, alas, there art thou, bidding for my council. As nothing else seems to be sufficient to cure his broken mind and soul, I advise you to change your proceedings: Show him everything about that fateful night, except his violent death – and let him roam thy gardens freely, let him speak with me through thy dreams and allow me to visit him when time comes. Otherwise he might linger in the shadows for many more centuries to come. That is all advice I can give thee, all I ask for.”

“Gramercy, for thy wise council, Lord of the Winds and King of Arda,” said Irmo, rising from his seat. Not openly had he been dismissed, but the words spoke volumes for themselves. “Come and wander my gardens as it pleases thee.”

There has been a time, when Manwë had been one of the few who entered the gardens without concern in search for recreation, however, the Elder King had not visited his sanctuary for a long while, he realized. “Dost as thou have often done in the past,” he added before he bowed and left the halls without further delay.

Thunder clamored in the far distance as Irmo returned to his gardens, and it was obvious whose work was happening.

 

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The Gardens of Lórien

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The wind heralding the heavy rain made the windows crack and its metal fastenings chime, soft rustling of leaves at first, soothing sounds, which soon developed into deep tolling noises of large branches and trunks. Again, the thunder clamored in the distance, but drew steadily closer, the elf noticed as he checked the wooden door and windows again. Soon after, heavily, the rain came down, rattling and clashing against the little house that he now called his home, and instinctively, Laurefindil knew that long the bad weather would persist, as his gaze reached the darkness that veiled the sun, menacing shadows hiding its beauty from him.

A beauty that was unrecognizable and veiled in his melancholic state of mind.

Back then, in the blissful days of old, he would have sat down in front of a crackling fire with a book in his hand, cherishing the pleasant diversion of being granted a few hours of solitude as the storm raged outside, unable to fulfil the duties his rank desired.

But life had changed, and it was irony in itself that Laurefindil thought of ‘life’ when he was not even certain what his current condition was, being trapped in a state between sleep and awake, caught in the dreadful misery of his broken soul.

Cold it was, almost bitterly so, as howling wind crawled through the bricks inside, the elf thought in silence as he sat down on the heavy and comfortable armchair, covering himself with a thick blanket of finest wool. Despite the hearth in his house, he had never lit a warming fire, preferring the frosty embrace of cold over warmth, shunning the searing and ever consuming flames from his life. Not much did he remember of Ondolindë’s fall, but the mere thought of fire made his entire body shake.

 

The book he had considered to read whilst the storm raged above him, had long fallen onto the ground when dreams invaded Laurefindil’s slumber.

“What ails thee?” A voice as soft as a gentle summer breeze asked, a voice that danced around him, luring him into a spell of enchantment, which he was unable to resist. The words felt like the sweetest embrace, warm and soft and soothing, an affectionate gesture he had not known in many years.

Startled, the elf turned around but could not quite distinguish from where the words had been spoken, nor did his gaze met the source of it.

“Who is speaking?” he inquired with wide eyes that resembled the blue color of the ice he had crossed so many millennia ago.

For brief moments, only the soft rustling of leaves could be heard before the voice was raised again: “Does it matter, Laurefindil of Ondolindë, valiant Lord of the Golden Flower, who was dear to so many?”

He, who spoke, dearly hoped, it mattered not as Laurefindil’s wrath could be like a vicious beast when it was cornered, and revealing himself just now would certainly lead to wrath and angry accusations. The stranger’s identity was one the elf was acquainted with, although a long time had passed since their last meeting.

Again, Laurefindil spun around, but the stranger was still veiled in darkness.

The voice was strangely familiar, but he couldn’t distinguish from where and when he knew it, a voice he had not heard in many millennia, when hatred and grief had chased him from the bliss and beauty that reigned in the Blessed Realm, a beauty he had been unable to see any longer in his blind rage and despair.

Briefly, he considered the friends he had had in Valinor - but then, this could not be, the elf decided, how should the stranger know about his life in Ondolindë?

“Yes – and no,” the elf finally responded to the question that left him startled, and if he was honest it mattered not who was holding conversation with him.

The words he had shared with the immortal race of elves were few save in matters that touched him near, and then his voice had a power to move those who heard him, but more recently, he barely had conversed with the First Born, Ingwë being an exception. However, with this elf, it always had been different, and involuntarily, his mind began to drift away.

“Thou hast not spoken with anybody since thy arrival in the Halls of Waiting, and pardon me, but I wonder wherefore,” the stranger asked quietly, with such a calm demeanor that Laurefindil’s eyes grew wide. Stunned, the elf could but stare, bewildered and befuddled, wondering where the stranger had all the knowledge from, as he was right.

Since his arrival in the Halls of Waiting, Laurefindil had shunned elf and Vala alike, his lips had been sealed with dread and horror. Once before, he had cursed the Lord of the Wests in all their glory and might, in Námo’s halls he had cursed its keeper again for meddling in his own affairs.

Oh, how dearly he now wished the stranger would reveal themself.

Odd indeed it was; the elf had not spoken since he did not even know how long, but now he did - much to his own surprise the words simply spilled down from his lips, and more surprisingly he began to enjoy the conversation, although his voice sounded throaty and alien to him.

He opened his mouth to argue that he had remained silent all the years for good reasons, but then he shut his mouth, sealing his lips with his fingers; how could be certain that the voice did not belong to one of the few he had refused to speak with?

Most likely that was the truth, and a spark of anger flared, cautious he had always been and not easily did one gain the golden-haired elf’s trust. “What does it now matter, stranger?” he proclaimed, anger shining in his voice as his inner tension grew. He felt tricked – and worse: betrayed. “I am dead as one could ever be.”

Laurefindil went over his words before wincing heavily as he realized how it must have sounded; so much dread and accusation shone from them that he must have been an open book to be read to whomever the stranger was. ‘Incarnated woe, drowning in self-pity’ he thought in silence, ‘that is what thou art’, and he could not help but despise himself for it.

He, who was once a formidable warrior, battle-steeled, a trusted advisor to Ondolindë’s King and loved by many of the White City’s inhabitants was only a mocking shadow of himself.

“Thou art not dead, but contemplating and reveling in thy dreadful past,” the faceless voice said, gaining authority with every word that left the invisible lips, and involuntarily the elf flinched upon its might, cowering before the verbal assault. “Is thy downfall that what numbs thee, memories of thy death that haunt thee?”

“If I had any,” the elf shook his head a little, as if to chase the thoughts immediately away. “No, it is not my death I mourn, although I do not remember it,” Laurefindil confessed truthfully. His life had always just been another little piece in the Great Music of the Ainur, a life that did not matter for the greater cause. At first, when he still had been rather young, the realization had pained him, but long ago he had come to terms with his destiny, after all they all only were tiny wheels in Arda’s fate. “Death is just another path we all have to tread, this is not what ails me; it is the ill feeling of not having been able to protect my city – my kin, the ones I have sworn to protect at all costs. I have failed as much as one could ever fail his trusted and loved friends.”

Manwë sighed in silence; everything seemed to be as he had feared, and exactly this suspicion had he voiced before Námo many years ago, still nothing had ever happened in his gloomy halls where black shadows danced against the mighty walls.

“But nothing of it is ever true,” he tried his luck again, internally doubting that the elf would believe his words. “Thou hast done everything to protect the white city and its inhabitants,” the stranger stated as if he knew what had happened. But then again, the elf asked in silence, how should he know?

“Yet I have failed,” the elf retorted almost petulantly with an incredible sadness that made the Vala’s stomach turn. It was the same sadness he had only once witnessed before among the First Born, and it had happened thousands of years ago, still he remembered it as if it had been yesterday. A warrior the golden-haired elf was, noble and highly respected among his kin, responsible for the cities’ protection and defense, always friendly and often laughing; now he was a mere shadow of his former self.

“The city has burned to the grounds and their people with it, has it not?” the elf asked, and tore the Vala out of his silent musings.

Despite his invisible state, he nodded. “Aye,” he said, an apologetic tone accompanying the word.

There was no point in denying the bitter reality, Ondolindë had fallen, burnt down to the ground by Melkor’s foul creatures until only smoldering ruins remained, hundreds of lives taken by sword, arrow and searing flames.

The Vala swallowed hard as the dreadful images resurfaced; oh, how he wished he could banish them for all eternity, and in silence he cursed his forsaken brother, as he had done so many times before. “Foul had been Melkor’s deeds that much I know, Laure, but hope remains, even if thou failest to see it. With thy deeds of valor, both Itarillë and Tuor live in safety now, and so does Eärendil. They have escaped the inferno unharmed and great songs will be sung of thy fight against the Balrog upon the pinnacle.”

Blurred images of a massive fiery beast with a whip of fire and soaring eagles appeared in his mind and before he could follow them, they disappeared, vanished and forgotten as quickly as they had invaded his mind, exchanged against images of yellow-blossoming flowers against rocky ground; flowers the elf had never seen before blossoming in these lands.

“I never thought it possible,” Laurefindil responded in pure and heart-warming astonishment, but soon suspicion took over his mind again. The most blatant lies could be laid right before him and he would not be able to know if they were true or not. Snippets of Lómion’s betrayal resurfaced, but then again, he doubted the stranger’s words. “But tell me, wherefore should I believe thee?” Once more he asked, rubbing disbelief right out of his eyes. Vivid snippets of Túrukáno’s daughter and the valiant man swept into his vision, so close that Laurefindil extended his arms as if he wished to touch them – and then they were gone.

“They are alive because thou hast saved them. Deep inside thou hast always known, Laurefindil,” the voice confirmed, regaining its soft and gentle note again, smooth and firm, yet barely there, just as a gentle breeze that danced through his hair.

‘My life thou might take,’ he had screamed towards the foul creature that had blocked his way, ‘but them, thou wilt not harm!’ The elf had no explanation where this memory had arisen from, only snippets he occasionally remembered. No matter what the voice was whispering, doubt remained within him. A dream this was, nothing more than an ordinary dream, vivid, so utterly rich in detail, but still a dream given to him by the Master of Dreams and Illusions.

Laurefindil said nothing. Countless words were caught in his throat and he would rather remain silent than stammer.

The voice became more distant, as if it had spoken to him from far away, carried towards him by a lofty breeze. “Turn melancholy forth to funerals, Laure, awake the nimble spirit of mirth once more, love and languish for thine own sake.” The elf was advised, and then again, the eagles soared high up through the air, drowning the words he had not fully comprehended yet.

‘Who art thou?’ The words lay upon his lips, but Laurefindil did not dare to spit it forth, although his curiosity was infinite.

For how long Laurefindil slept at the end, he did not know when a sudden sharp sound stirred him from his slumber, a noise like roaring thunder right above his little house, fierce in its intensity and the elf nearly fell off his chair. There was a vicious throbbing in this temples, he realized, just as if he had consumed too much wine, although he certainly had not. And he was exhausted - so exhausted as any ever could be, and carefully he allowed his gaze to wander to check if he was still alone. Of course he was!

‘A dream, nothing more than another dream,’ he told himself, but deep inside he already knew that this was no mere dream like he had been granted so many by the Master of Dreams in the past years. ‘A dream, nothing more than a dream.’

Laurefindil could not explain his returning memory with rationality, however, he did not believe in magic of that sort, either. What was this all about? So many questions, so many fleeting images that rushed through his troubled mind – so many memories he had long deemed forgotten. Hadn’t his death been final, hadn’t he locked him away in his self-proclaimed misery, denied all that probably HAD cared for him?

Something within his mind had changed upon the awkward conversation he had held in his state between sleep and awake, and despite his exhaustion his mind was constantly reeling until fatigue overwhelmed him once more. The eagles – no! The memories of one very specific eagle it were that hold him captive. Blurred images of Thorondor, the King of the Eagles in all his might, who held a tiny figure with flowing blond hair between his claws, circling high above a landscape that was veiled in darkness, appeared before his inner eye and he stared in awe. He had come to save his body from the abyss, Laurefindil realized as he watched his rescue strangely detached from the world that was once his own. The mighty bird, who spread his wings on only one’s command, soaring high up into the sky, only to descend again to lay his life-less body down onto the rocky ground.

In those days which were long forgotten by now, long before the elf had crossed the Grinding Ice following Ñolofinwë’s lead, Laurefindil had often seen the eagles fly high above Tirion upon Túna, circling around the towering peak of Taniquëtil and the blinding palace of Ilmarin.

At first, he dismissed the thought as another ridiculous idea of his troubled mind, but the longer he thought about it, the more sense it made, and it was as if everything slowly began to fall into places.

Had the Lord of the Winds been the one who had invaded his slumber, who had spoken so gently to him?

Was this the answer to all the riddles that had occupied his mind so many months, or had it been even years? There was no way to distinguish anymore, having lost all sense of time – but then, how?

And more so - why? Why now, after so many years?

Laurefindil’s breath caught in his throat, as his mind was pondering every possible answer.

Hadn’t he raised his voice in a way he should never had all those millennia ago?

Hadn’t he followed the Ñolofinwëans over the Grinding Ice, defying and rebelling against the mighty Lords of the West, their King above all others? Yes, his motives for leaving the Blessed Realm behind had greatly differed from the others, but the consequence he had drawn had been the same.

The Olórë Mallë, the Path of Dreams, had been blocked for him immediately as he had left the Blessed Realm behind, the moment Námo had uttered the dreadful words on the northern shores. No, despite his motives, Laurefindil had not any better than all the others, the elf thought as the words of doom and dreadful foreboding echoed repeatedly through his head. ‘Your houseless spirits shall come then to Mandos. There long shall ye abide and yearn for your bodies, and find little pity though all whom ye have slain should entreat for you. The Valar have spoken.’

This was exactly where he was – and then, he was not. He was not in Námo’s care any longer, but residing in Irmo’s quiet sanctuary – but did this mean he was alive? Nothing seemed to make sense any more, not that it had been any better in the darkness of the Halls of Waiting.

 

Day after day, night after night the dream returned, each time it became more vividly, more detailed in its riches. From time to time, now voices mingled with the fragments of memory, voices he had heard before, but then he had not and memories long forgotten and concealed to shield his heart resurfaced. To the question what this was all about the golden-haired elf couldn’t find an answer, at least no sufficient one, and thought at times insanity reigned his troubled mind.

The rain refused to stop its vicious assault, and heavy winds raged over the Vala’s garden, thunder clashed and clamored heavily. The days drew long in Irmo’s sanctuary and for many days, Laurefindil was condemned to stay inside the little house he had been granted to live in, which sat dark and forlorn in the twilight of the storm, and the elf inside indulged into long forgotten reveries.

But finally, his heart longed to see the beauty the Gardens of Lórien were famous for.

~~

 

 

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Chapter End Notes

[QUOTES]

[1] “Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean, brood of Morgoth or bright Vala,‘Eru Allfather! To the everlasting Darkness doom us if our deed faileth. On the holy mountain ear in witness and our vow remember, Manwë and Varda!” Oath of Fëanor, History of Middle-Earth, Part 10 (Morgoth’s Ring)

[2]“Tears unnumbered ye shall shed; and the Valar will fence Valinor against you. On the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also. The Dispossessed shall they be for ever. [..] Your houseless spirits shall come then to Mandos. There long shall ye abide and yearn for your bodies, and find little pity though all whom ye have slain should entreat for you. The Valar have spoken.” Doom of Mandos, The Silmarillion – Of the Flight of the Noldor