Was it Worth it?
By Umiki
Author note: to all readers I claim nothing from the series in which this fanfic takes place. It is the full property of J. R. R. Tolkien and I make this with no intention to profit from it.
Now that that's out of the way I want to state that this fanfic was made in honor of the wonderful simaetha, whom inspired the idea for it. She had wondered on the face of Mandos, his expression after having to deal with the drama and fire of Feanor's line once they learned of Sauron's seduction of Celebrimbor.
I realized that I had never found a fanfic that actually dealt over this issue so I gave into the urge to make one and gifted it to the author who unintentionally inspired it. Both simaetha and her stories can be found on AO3 and I high recommend doing so; she puts a very powerful spin on the series and is the foremost writer on the Sauron/Celebrimbor pairing.
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It was a terrible burden to bear, overseeing the Judgement of the Dead.
Such a task required to be removed from the woes of both the body and heart else he allowed sentiment to cloud his ruling. It was vital he not fail in this task, vital he not let his own pity and compassion for his charges be his undoing.
He had learned this lesson well when Lúthien came to him in seeking Beren and Aikanáro, upon learning of their Gift, fell into such a despair Námo was forced to give him into Irmo's keeping. To this day he still slept in Irmo's gardens, cared for and guarded by maia from both Fëanturi. Even his brother was unsure if the broken-hearted elf would awaken, let alone take to a hóra.
But more so, the Valar knew, he could never let himself be consumed in ire. The damage he could wrote unto the fëa within his Halls would be catastrophic if his control ever slipped. And thus it was the first teaching Námo took was not anything great nor glamorous but the understanding that he must never let his anger cloud him; and if it should, secrete himself into privacy. For the safety of his Halls and any within his power's reach.
Scarce were these moments in his enduring. Scarce were those precious moments when he dared to let his own heart move him.
Melkor's Fall and thus the beginning of his sister Nienna's never-ending tears.
His attempt to warn Fëanor of the path that lay before him should he continue.
And now this…
"THAT SPAWN OF A CESSPIT YOU TAKE YOUR HANDS OFF MY SON! TELPERINQUAR YOU STUPID BOY HOW COULD YOU LET THIS HAPPEN?! YOU LET YOURSELF BELIVE YOU COULD HANDLE HIM NOW LOOK AT YOU WEAK-WILLED CHILD! YOU ARE CERTAINLY HANDLING HIM VERY WELL-! "
"I seriously don't want to hear this Curu! It is horrible enough that you do not need screech it loud enough even Eru could hear you!"
"Huan should never have let that filth leave his jaws. Lady Lúthien was too merciful."
"Should we be thankful Gorthaur has no desire to kill little Telpy, Ambarussa?"
"And the alternative of an eternal imprisonment as his puppet king and lover, Ambarussa?"
"True."
"Matimo please come away you are not doing yourself any good watching this!"
There had not been a moment of quite in his Halls from the instant House Fëanor, and by extension their brother House, learned just what had occurred to the last living son of their blood and who exactly had won his heart and hand.
At first it had been vindictively amusing to Námo.
All of Fëanor's Line had given him trouble from Fëanor himself to Nelyafinwë in one form or another, combined with Curufinwë's general lack of interest in those he had left behind for the longest of time it had been in Námo's heart of hearts a just deserts. It was only when Nelyafinwë, once more tormenting himself over his selfish abandonment of Macalurë, wondered of his nephew Telperinquar. He had approached Vairë requesting to see his weaving and, with a compassionate gaze that had set the elf instantly on guard, granted his request.
It would not have been so explosive had Nelyafinwë thought to do more than drag his entire family to the weave and shove Curufinwë's face into it, his elder brother hissing no differently than one of Morgoth's serpents, "You knew nothing of THIS!? Cared not to even learn who had turned his foul gaze upon YOUR OWN SON!" Curufinwë had stared comatose at the depiction of his kingly dressed son passionately embraced in caging arms of a fair-being with eyes that burned as the earth's heart, whose shadow had taken form behind Telperinquar looming over them both.
None had mistaken the familiarity of that shadow.
Suffice to say, Námo had in that moment the pleasure of informing them that this was the first time any had asked to see the Weaving of Telperinquar Curufinwëion. And to give pitying congratulations to Curufinwë on behalf of his son for being the second in all of Arda to obtain the ardor of an ainur.
The reply House Fëanor gave had been...interesting.
Námo's eyes were drawn to the main doors of his Hall. With his eyes it was no feat to mark the nicks, cuts, and even scratches still bearing pieces of bloodied nails left over by the Fëanorion brood in their lines notorious fury. A surprise to many it seemed, that Curufinwë actually did care about his son; enough to dare return to the world when his time it was not. Many of his brothers had tried to help in what way they dared but only Tyelcormo's presence did he fully accept. Cousins and uncles had watched in varying states of emotion as Curufinwë roared and spat and wept at those doors, but all had chosen silence in the end.
No matter their hate for Fëanor's line they would not lower themselves to torment a father forced to watch, unable to save his son from the demon that so lovingly kissed his lips and led him deeper into shadows.
But that had been then.
After the tears had dried and his throat now parched as the deserts of Harad Curufinwë became as furious fire surpassing even his brother Carnistir in might. His roars became winds through the Halls, his anger a heat that warmed the stones. Very few could approach him without those crazed eyes boring down you.
He became a frequent sight in Vairë's tapestry room, enough that she had left his Weaving in a lone corner Curufinwë was given to sit. Only there did he choose silence, staring ghostly at the happiness in his son's eyes when in the presence of Sauron. How the accursed ainur took the chipped and flaking pieces Curufinwë, and all their family for that matter, had ripped off Telperinquar throughout his life and slowly cemented them back together; in his design, in his desire.
And with every piece the Fëanorion himself broke. There would only be despair waiting one way or another in the end for all involved.
Námo witnessed all this and judged it. His pity ever was and his compassion more so for the elf. Námo would never have a child but he knew the flavors of all paternal love as if he had lived them. In this, though potential for history and tragedy, Curufinwë was changing. Growing.
Mayhap Curufinwë would be ready to return sooner than believed. Mayhap.
But after centuries of this madness reverberating in his Halls…..
"Husband, your tapping her fingers." Vairë warned quietly, as if expecting to be heard had she not.
Námo glanced at his hand, realizing that yes his fingers now emitted pulses of discomfort, and considered. That his beloved wife had to do so was worrying. In the foreground the racket of Curufinwë suddenly grew even louder. The discomfort grew with every word.
His ire had finally been kindled.
"Brother please come away. Your hands are bleeding again."
"Let go of me Celegrom!"
"There is nothing you can do brother. Brother!"
"NO YOU STUPID BOY DON'T GO BACK TO SLEEP SAURON REMOVE YOUR FILTHY CLAWS FROM HIS HAIR-!"
Enough.
BOOOOOM!
All eyes shot towards the great throne of the Death King boggling at the clenched fist resting over cracked stonework.
The Halls fell silent as Mandos rose, his face a grave thunderous storm bursting with monstrous forms and savage lightning. Eyes of dark voids waiting to devour all light around them they bore into the pale elf frozen before the Weaving. He attempted to open his mouth "Curufinwë Fëanorion. Be silent." Ragged cracks of tombs crushing under their own weight, a litany of groaning coffins and weeping graves.
And he was silent.
The Halls moaned as stone and dust trembled onto the fëa and maia below, their forms quaking under his might. "I have tolerated your bellowing and antics in my Halls until now. No more. Either you will control yourself or vent in the company of Gorgumoth in Lumbi. Am I clear?"
Curufinwë nodded rapidly, paling even further. His family dragged him farther into the Halls out of Námo's direct sight with bows before disappearing.
Námo returned to his seat. His Halls began to move once more, in silence.
Vairë hummed, loom ever in motion. "Was it worth it?"
And Námo's graven face was once more unmoving. Only a flicker of his fëa remained in his eyes.
But that too was smothering under the weight of Judgement still waiting for him beyond, of fëa trembling in fear of the power they had been exposed to needlessly.
The ire flamed once more. "It never is."