The Second War of Wrath

Update 07.04.18:
WE'RE BACK. WE'RE ALIIIIIIIVE. For the most part. Check out the prologue of Undoomed for details!

It was not a common occurrence for Irmo to be angry, and those who were unlucky enough to find him in such a state most usually did not stay around him long enough to witness his wrath. But today, the Master of Dreams and Desires was adamant that the subject of his anger would not escape today. Oh no, neither Maia nor houseless fëa would keep him from giving Námo a solid piece of his mind.

Even the silencing stones of the Halls were unable to muffle his anger, the sharp clacks of his footsteps echoing throughout the Houses of the Dead. Occasional fëar watched as he stormed through the grand halls and corridors in search of his sibling, giving him looks of reverence or fear or sometimes even surprise.

"Master Irmo!" called a voice from behind him.

Irmo glanced over his shoulder to see one of his brother's Maiar trailing behind him. It was one he did not recognize, her fana a faceless figure in a hooded white robe. That hood that so resembled his brother's...he felt his lips curl in a snarl.

"Master Irmo, might you require assistance?" she queried as she caught up with the longer-limbed Vala.

"I am searching for your master," Irmo growled. "My brother has done something unacceptable."

If the Maia's fana had eyes, they would have grown wide at the dream master's tone.

"O-of course, my lord," the Maia stuttered, suddenly regretting her choice to interact with her master's brother. "I am…fairly certain he is this way."

The Maia led Irmo down a hall and, despite her lack of corporeal eyes, felt herself tearing up. After all, things would not likely end well if the servant failed to find her master promptly...but her poor master, though.

I apologize, Master Námo, and Eru be with you.

The next corridor was lined with numerous alcoves and resonated with the Doomsman's characteristically deep whisper.

"Námo!" Irmo snapped, leaving the Maia behind and glancing into each alcove, his midnight blue robes swirling about him.

In the second-to-last niche on the right, a tall figure in black stood now silently with his back to the rest of the hall, the houseless fëar before him preparing to leave.

"Námo, Lord of Mandos and Doomsman of Arda, I would speak with you," the Master of Dreams and Desires hissed as he came to stand behind his elder brother.

For a moment, the sibling Fëanturi were silent and still. The three fëar trembled; if they wanted to leave the tension-filled space, they would have to slip past Irmo first, and his already-imposing figure was now outright menacing.

"Would you?" the Doomsman echoed after some time. He turned to face his younger sibling, a small smile twisting his bloodless lips. "What is it that you wish to discuss, dearest brother? It must be quite important for you to have left your garden and come all the way out here to see me."

"Indeed," the younger spat.

"We should go somewhere where we can discuss things privately, then," the Doomsman whispered, his smile evident in his words. He lifted his chin, his voice raising slightly. "Fuathil?"

"Yes, my lord?" The Maia that had followed Irmo re-appeared and bowed deeply to her master, relieved to see that he was in one piece.

"Please ensure these fëar are shown a place where they can rest comfortably. They have had a rather difficult journey here."

Námo acknowledged her bow with a tilt of his head and glided past his fuming brother, making his way back down the corridor. After several twists and turns through the maze-like fortress of Mandos, they arrived in his private study.

"Tell me, brother dearest," the Doomsman whispered as he gestured to a pair of plush chairs close to the hearth, pouring two glasses of wine from a decanter on an end table. "What is it that has you so...riled?"

"Your actions of late are concerning to me, Námo." Irmo paced the room, ignoring the chair, but took the proffered glass of alcohol as he passed. He downed the crimson liquid, then growled deep in his throat and slammed his glass down on the table, normally-calm blue eyes ablaze. The thought-glass shattered with a tinkle, then faded. "What possessed you to send the Sons of Fëanor back to Middle Earth?"

The Lord of Mandos chuckled to himself as he swept into his usual seat, lowering his cowl to reveal his shadowed eyes and Void-black tresses. "Is this what has you so upset? Irmo, my dear, you should not let yourself become so distressed over such a small thing."

"A small thing?" he shot at the Doomsman. "Brother, you reincarnated the Sons of Fëanor. In what circle of the world does it make sense for you to do that?"

"In all of them," Námo said instantly. "There exists no being who can deny the skills and determination of those seven."

"Not only that, but you told them that I agreed to this!"

The Doomsman's face knit in thought for a breath before clearing again. "Ah, yes. Non-linear perception of time, my apologies."

"You mean to say that I agreed to—will agree to—" The Master of Dreams and Desires ground his teeth together, then jabbed his finger at his brother. "Nothing good will come of this, mark my words."

"Then at the very least, I can promise you that nothing bad will happen." Námo contemplated the burgundy-hued liquid in his glass. "It is difficult to fathom, Irmo...how trying life will be for the Children of Ilúvatar in the coming age. The Fëanorions will aid them in their turmoil."

"How can you even think that?" Irmo sighed, suddenly drained. He sank into the chair across from his brother. "What good could possibly come of those kinslayers returning to Middle Earth?"

Oh, how the Doomsman longed to spill everything to his brother, to tell him what all he had seen in the future of the Children. It would be bloody and there would be deaths, but the glories that they would achieve would far outweigh the sacrifices that they would make.

Eru would not allow him that luxury, though, and he settled for a wry smile.

"You will have to wait and see," he whispered, sipping at his wine. Irmo placed his head in his hands and groaned.

"What am I to do, Námo?"

"Nothing." With a flutter of his fingers a new glass materialized in them. He handed it to his brother, then unstoppered the decanter and filled the glass, carefully adjusting the wine's composition with his thought as he did so. "It is Eru's will that the Sons of Fëanor be returned to life. There is nothing more to be done."

Irmo leaned back in his chair, brooding. He didn't want to sit by and do nothing as seven of the most notorious murderers of the First Age roamed free in Middle Earth.

"Do not worry over them, brother. They cannot remember the Oath—the Children have nothing to fear from them." The black-clad Vala rose and laid a comforting hand on his brother's shoulder. "Rest here for the night. Perhaps you could wait until the morning to leave for your realm? I am certain Estë is more than capable of tending the garden for one night. Besides, some time away from Lórien will do you good."

The Master of Dreams couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at his brother.

"You are always trying to get me away from my work." Námo's pale eyes danced with merriment. "I think it is only fair that I do the same for you."

Notes
Fana: the tangible form that a Vala or Maia will take on in order to interact with the physical world