the quiet of cooling ashes by Sasha Honeypalm

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

As Námo walked down his Halls, he passed through many silences.

In one room there was the silence of peace. The moment of release as pain ends, the wordless comfort of a mother’s arms. Here some of the newest-come Dead sat, forgetting their fear, easing of the wounds the world had torn into them. A former orc, her outline still uncertain, lay with her head in the lap of the warrior who slew her. A father rocked his small daughter, eyes staring into the distance. There was no past to mourn, no future to dread; all was restful Now.

In one room there was the silence of brokenness. The dread weight of awful truths, the surety of self-damnation. Here were those who had at last looked into themselves, and had despaired. Kinslayers and traitors, there were, and petty bullies and small tyrants. Anguished, ashamed, they held no hope for redemption. Even mere forgiveness seemed as unreachable as the Timeless Halls. Naught could they do but to lay down in despondent lassitude. No Vala could lift their self-imposed Doom; Námo had tried. No soul left this chamber except by own choice.

In one room there was the silence of contemplation. The healing of honest self-reckoning, the hope of a long-buried seed in spring. Here the Dead stood in thought, readying themselves for a new beginning. Resolute, they dared face the future once more; soon they would hear the Song of the world calling them back to life. A Noldorin woman stirred as Námo watched, blinking as though emerging into bright sunlight. She nodded to herself, and walked through a door that had not been there a minute ago and would not be there a minute from now.

And then– and then there was a room beyond all the rooms. A shadowed alcove in the depths where no fëa was supposed to be. Nonetheless, there was a figure there, grey and still, slumped on the gouged floor. He had blazed, once. Had arrived unbowed, incandescent, his very being a furious shout. No regret could be discerned in the flames of his eyes, no remorse for the souls sent before him by sword and come after him by ice. The Spirit of Fire burned bright, and the world was caught in his conflagration.

And then his sons began to follow, each spirit more ragged and bloodstained than the next. Celegorm no longer fair, Curufin come to craft’s end, Caranthir gone dark. The flames began to dim then, slightly. The Ambarussa arrived within the hour of each other, reluctantly, half-hoping to be claimed by the Eternal Darkness. The fire subsided to sullen embers, near-doused by a father’s tears. Sparks still flickered though, from time to time, until his eldest son came. His Maitimo, his shapely child, was now a charred husk, seared inside and out by the jewel that had rejected him. The fire flared brightly, one last scream of brilliance, and then it died. And the rest was silence.

Námo knew, better than most, the cost of that fire; he had Called them to his Halls by name, one by one, those frightened fishermen and lost children and heartsick murderers. How could one grieve for such a fell flame? And yet, seeing Fëanáro extinguished, how could he not mourn? He, who knew the Doom of all Arda, knew not the answer. Perhaps there was none.

And this, too, was a kind of silence.

---

Chapter End Notes

The idea for this story originally came from SWG's Fanon Inverted challenge (even though it ended up not so much inverting fanon as playing it straight in a different way).