Lessons from the Mountain by MithLuin

---

Prologue: The Halls of Waiting

Dedication: To my Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ. My turn will come one day.

---

His world was fire. He was burning, the jewel in his hand was burning, and the fiery pits of broken Beleriand around him were burning. All was fire, and the fire was all one and the same – inescapable, because it was part of him. The moment of decision came and went, and as he fell, he tried to remember – did he fall, or did he jump willingly? He could not separate himself from the burning jewel, and it called to the burning earth, so he, the jewel, and the earth would all burn. His last thought passed through his mind fleetingly; My body will turn to ash, as Father’s did.

Afterwards, he discovered the fatal flaw, the cheat – his fëa could not hold onto anything, not even the jewel. He tried to resist, but he was wrenched away. He howled in loss, not noticing that he made no sound, that his spirit was pulled inexorably Westward. He passed over the wide, cold, unforgiving Sea, but was too afraid to touch the waters to ease the pain in his hand. He reached the Forbidden Shores, and paused, hesitating before those dark doors. A gate of stone and steel, opening into only Shadow, on a barren, rocky shore. A cold wind blew, and he knew it was his only hope of escaping Eternal Darkness. He would not go into the Void, and so he fled into the forbidding gate. The darkness swirled about him, and he knew no more.

When next he woke, he screamed in agony. His hand, his hand burned in pain. He grasped his wrist, trying to contain the fire in his hand. Then, with a shock, he stopped screaming and opened his eyes in wonder. His right hand was grasping his wrist. The right hand that he had lost nearly six hundred years ago was there, as if it had never been severed. He flexed it wonderingly, and turned it over, looking at it, amazed to see it move under his will. His left hand still burned, but the pain was forgotten in the wonder of having a right hand. He did not know how long he sat there, staring at his hands, but he suddenly knew he was not alone. The fear of before came washing over him, and he tensed.

"Nelyafinwë, you have come at last," said a Voice.

"Last of the House of Fëanor," he agreed, wondering that he could now speak.

"Nay, not last," the Voice answered.

Not getting to his feet, he twisted around to face the Voice. "Which of my brothers have you lost?" he demanded, panic finding its way into his voice. "Whom have you abandoned to the Outer Darkness?" He received no answer. "Doomsman, answer me!" he demanded, pleading. The dark figure stood, silent and implacable in the shadows. "I will go instead," he said, madly, miserably. "Neither I nor they will find peace here in your Halls, bereft of Light. But do not doom my brothers!"

"You have doomed yourselves," the Voice answered.

In horror, he scrambled as far away as he could. His hand touched a cold stone wall, and again, he knew nothing more.

He awoke sprawled on the stone floor where he had fallen. Again, he cried out in pain and clutched his left hand hard into a fist. The memory of fire was still vivid and near.

"You would have done well to come to me sooner," the Voice began. He did not know if it had ever left him.

"That was not my fate, as you well know," he said evenly, getting to his feet to face the shadowy figure. "I would have indeed come sooner, and gladly, but you must ask Manwë-to-whom-all-birds-are-dear why I did not." This was said in bitterness, but without any scorn.

"Not that soon. You were spared for a purpose."

"Yes, my life secured Fingolfin’s crown, and restored peace."

"Did you learn nothing on the Mountain?" the Voice asked gently. This time, it was Maedhros who remained silent.

Finally, after the silence stretched unbearably long, he spoke. "I learned that my pleas could not reach the One." It cost him something to say what he had never fully admitted in life.

"Is that all?" the Voice asked, soft but inexorable.

"I never bargained with the Enemy," he claimed, his shoulders remembering something of hauteur. "He thought to break me, to make me his thrall. But my Father taught me to withstand him."

"Respect for the Powers was never Fëanáro’s strength," the Voice murmured.

"How could it be, when you claim brotherhood with our Enemy?" he retorted.

"One can only be betrayed by an ally," came the quick reply. "And the betrayal of a brother cuts deepest."

Maedhros had no answer for that, so instead he looked at his hands. The left one was clenched to ward off the pain, but the right was the same as it had ever been… when he had had it, that is. He turned it over, flexed it, wiggled his fingers – it seemed as real as the rest of him.

"What else did you learn on the Mountain?" the Voice pressed again.

"That pain can wash away wrongdoing," he whispered, still looking at his hands. "I could not undo what happened at Alqualondë, but I paid the price for it. When I returned, the others saw my pain, my maimed hand, but they were slow to see my peace. Save Finrod. He read hearts truly, and saw that mine had been…changed by my ordeal, like many who crossed the Ice. We were never friends in Aman, but he offered me friendship and trust after that, which I was glad to accept. Till I lost him to your keeping," he added, looking up.

"No, not my keeping," came the unexpected reply. "He is not here."

"Can you not keep any of your dead?" Maedhros exclaimed in surprise. "Surely you would not curse him to the darkness. Even you would not…"

"I tend only the dead."

"Finrod…lives?" he asked uncertainly.

The dark figure before him nodded silently.

"And…my brothers? Have you released them as well?" he asked hesitantly.

He shook his head.

Maedhros wailed in despair, "Whom did you lose? Whose spirit did not find the way to your Halls? Tell me!"

"Maglor lives," he answered.

Maedhros’ mouth fell open in shock. "How?" he asked, opening his left hand and falling to the floor in pain.

"You have much to expunge, eldest son of Fëanor. I will leave you your pain until you no longer have need of it. But you will answer for your deeds – all of them. Your wisdom failed in the end."

Maedhros closed his hand and gasped out, "I will answer. I am no thrall, nor have I forgotten my deeds. But please, let me see my family, if they are in your care."

The dark figure shook his head. "You are not yet ready." He receded, and Maedhros was left alone.

"Not ready to answer? Or not ready to see my family?" he asked the empty walls.

***

He did not know how long he was left alone. He had never been so truly alone before. Even on the Mountain, he had had… he shook his head. That insidious whisper had been a most unwelcome companion. He was glad to be rid of it here. The Doomsman’s word was Law – he never spoke untruly. But he did not invade Maedhros’ thoughts, nor try to trick him with phantoms. No, he was truly alone in this… hall? The floor and walls of his cell were made of stone, smooth, but not well worn. He could not see or touch the ceiling, but the space did not seem open. There was no source of light, but the air was suffused with the dim grey light before dawn, when colour cannot yet be discerned. There was nothing in this prison – not a stick of furniture – save a puddle of water on the floor. Nor was there any door or window to interrupt the curving wall. The Doomsman seemed to think he should have learned something important while he hung by his wrist from the rocky walls of Thangorodrim. Was he doomed to repeat the experience until the end of Arda?

He soon learned that the pain in his left hand was worst when he opened it. Even closed, there was a dull throb that pulsed through him. He would have kept it clenched indefinitely, save for another discovery – when he opened it, there was a glimpse of light. He had no explanation – how could his hand remember the fire that had burned him? – but was content to accept it. When the darkness overwhelmed him, and he yearned for Light, he need only open his hand and try not to close his eyes from the pain. He could not endure it for long, but it was enough.

He traversed his prison cell many times. He was thankful that the Lord of Mandos had not chained him. At first, he merely walked back and forth. But later, he allowed his feet to trace out more and more intricate patterns. He always avoided the puddle of water, though. He had no need for food or water here, but the depravation seemed natural. He was neither hungry nor thirsty.

On one occasion, his footsteps ended in the precise centre of the room. He sat down and faced what he thought to be West. There was no way to tell, of course, but he had long since felt out the directions and stuck to his perceptions. His right hand grasped his left wrist. The constant buzz of pain was manageable; he could function this way. Slowly he opened his left fist, gazing hungrily at the light that poured out to greet him. The pain roiled through him like the heat from a fire, though he merely rocked back and forth, eyes fixed on his only remaining treasure. But a haze clouded his vision, and he knew that he could not endure for much longer. On an impulse, he held his hand up and looked up, to see if the ceiling would be illuminated. But still he saw nothing. Then the pain took him and he fell to the floor. When he awoke, his left fist was again clenched tightly shut.

After that, he tried to use the Light from his hand to illuminate his surroundings from time to time. He found he could endure the pain longer when he did so. He caught glimpses of colour and intricacies of texture that he could not see in the dim light. But the most fascinating thing was the way the water reflected the light. He took to blowing softly on the surface of the water to make ripples before opening his fist. But still he did not touch it. Finally, once when the pain of the fire was on him, and he thought he could endure it no longer, he plunged his left hand into the puddle of water. "Powers, release me!" he cried out, and to his wonder, the light in the water lit the entire hall. The next instant, he fell into darkness. But when he awoke, the Light was still shining from the water. The colours had been returned, so now his prison cell was no longer grey. The stones of the floor were revealed to be of many colours, and now he could see their pattern. He walked around the cell, drinking in the sight of the walls. He looked up, to see the ceiling for the first time. It was a high vault, clear as crystal, but only darkness was beyond it – no stars. So, it did not open on the airs of Arda. With some trepidation, he looked at his hand. It seemed the same as ever. Slowly, he uncurled it, and was overcome by the familiar wave of pain and nausea. But…no light poured forth to greet him. He cried out, and clenched his fist tightly closed. "No!"

"Why are you upset?" asked a voice behind him. He whirled around in shock. He had been alone for so long…. The Doomsman was no longer a shadow, but was now revealed in the light of his cell. A dark hood overshadowed his face, so that only his glinting eyes were clear. He was clothed in sable, but it was not the unrelieved black of the Master of Angband – his robes were trimmed with gems. Maedhros found some comfort in that, though he did not know why. He looked down, avoiding the eyes of his visitor, and suddenly saw that his own clothes were black trimmed with silver, though the badge of Fëanor that he wore in life was absent.

"Why did you cry out?" the Lord of Mandos repeated.

"The Light was mine," he said petulantly. "Now it is not." Why was he whining like a child?

"You gave it to the water," the Doomsman agreed, "but it was never yours."

Maedhros looked up at his response, meeting the glittering eyes of the Vala. He was not accustomed to looking up at people. Finally, he understood the difference between his captivity here and on the Mountain of Thangorodrim. He exclaimed in wonder, "There is no evil in your darkness."

"Only what you bring with you."

Maedhros looked down at his clenched left hand, unable to meet the burning eyes of the Doomsman of the Valar any longer. "At least the pain is still mine," he said quietly.

The Lord of Mandos smiled. "When you are ready, you will give that up as well."

"I am ready to see my family now," he answered quickly, looking up. He had not forgotten their last conversation.

"Are you ready to answer for your deeds?" the stern figure countered.

Maedhros looked at him and tilted his head, calculating. "Judgement before reunions?" he asked.

"Tell me, Maedhros, why are five of your brothers dead?"

"Our Oath…" Maedhros began, but the Doomsman shook his head.

"Nay, heir of Fëanor, it was not the Oath who led your brothers to their deaths. And I will not permit you to see them again until you acknowledge what you did after the Fifth Battle."

Maedhros squared his shoulders, enraged. "Do not accuse me of that, Lord. Well you know that it was no fault of mine that Beren recovered a Silmaril from the belly of the wolf. I never met Lúthien of Doriath."

"No, but you killed her son and grandsons."

Maedhros’ eyes blazed. "Do not… confuse… my actions… with those of my brothers!" he shouted.

"Who led the army against Doriath?" the Lord of Mandos countered. "Who gave the orders to attack elves for the first time in five hundred years of the Sun?"

"I…couldn’t help it!" Maedhros wailed, shocked to hear himself crying. "Why did Celegorm have to meet Lúthien? Why? If he had never seen her…"

"You do not need to answer for that," the Voice broke through his distressed sobs.

"But that was the problem!" Maedhros shouted, his tears forgotten. "He reminded Curufin of the Oath, and Curufin stirred up all of my brothers. I only restrained them by appealing to Celegorm to leave Lúthien’s family in peace while Beren yet lived."

"What did you hope to gain by the delay?" the Lord of Mandos asked shrewdly.

"Celegorm was taken with Lúthien. Men do not live forever, nor do they return. I… did not know what she would do when he died, but I thought…"

"You thought she would marry another?"

"I…I did not know," Maedhros said miserably. "After all, you permitted my grandfather to do so…."

"No, I did not," he answered sharply. "Lord Manwë alone could grant such a request."

"But you granted her request!" Maedhros said angrily. "She died! She wasn’t supposed to. All my carefully constructed cautions went up like so much straw left too near the fire. Celegorm could be restrained from making demands of his fair Lúthien, but her son? Nay," he laughed, "all the charisma of Elfinesse could not have restrained my brothers. My only fault was in not being greater than I was made to be!"

"Your only fault? Fifty-three elves in my care fell to your sword that day."

Maedhros crumpled to his knees and buried his face in his hands, ignoring the pain. "What was I to do?" he wailed. "I had no choice." He wept silently, his shoulders shaking. Neither spoke until his sobs subsided.

"Are you ready for judgement?" the Lord of Mandos asked again suddenly.

Maedhros looked up. "It will be much worse than this, will it not?" The Lord of Mandos nodded. "But there is a chance that afterwards I may see my family?" He nodded again.

Maedhros got back to his feet, his head held erect. "You will find that I can endure great pain," he said gravely. "I do not wish to wait any longer."

"So be it."

The room dissolved around him in a swirl of light and colour. He was rather annoyed with himself for losing consciousness yet again.

---

Chapter End Notes

fëa: spirit/soul; opposite of hroa: body

Nelyafinwë: "Third Finwë" Father-name of Maedhros, designating his place in the succession.

Fëanáro: Fëanor’s name in Quenya, and the one he used in life.

Doomsman: Námo’s titles include Lord of Mandos and Doomsman of the Valar

Powers: A translation of Valar, though Tolkien also uses Authorities

"Maglor lives" is taken from Blind Guardian's 'Nightfall in Middle Earth' CD, being a cool variation on "Frodo lives!"  I liked it so much I had to use it :)