Disclaimer: All recognisable characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate.
Inspired by an image of Námo by pyritewolf on DeviantArt (remove spaces add .com after deviantart): www. deviantart /pyritewolf/art/Namo-487249203, and the caption that goes with it.
"As the Noldor listened to the Curse of Mandos, they saw a dark figure. What they never saw was the tears."
Níreiva - tears
...
Námo wept.
Watching the elves ignore his warning of the Doom that would befall them if they continued down this path, filled him with a great sorrow. Watching them march past him without a care was even worse. Fëanáro's fine sounding words had blinded them to all but the desire to leave Valinor, to go build great kingdoms in Endórë. Nothing anyone said was about to stop them.
Little did they know the kingdoms those who survived the journey would build would ultimately be as dust, crumbling away over time. They themselves would be besieged with strife, grief and suffering at every turn, no matter what they did. Living in the bliss and safety of the Blessed Realm for so long had made them ill-prepared for what they would face in the Outer Lands. Oh, their glory there would be great, that was for sure. But, it would also be short-lived, and ultimately futile.
Fëanáro, in his short-sighted arrogance, thought their deeds would be remembered until the end of days. He little realised there would be few left alive to remember anything. Námo knew his Halls would fill with exiled Noldor fëar before too many more years passed; had already foreseen Fëanáro himself would be among the first to come to him.
Firstborn son of the first king of the Noldor. First to listen to Melkor's lies. First to draw steel against another. First to rebel against the Valar. First to leave Valinor, and first to return to the very place and people he'd scorned via the Halls of Mandos.
Yet, he would also be the last to leave Mandos, and not until the remaking of the world. Námo had seen but glimpses of this event. But, he knew Fëanáro's desire to rid himself of the Valar, and the authority Eru had invested in them, would only lead to his fëa spending countless Ages dwelling in the very Halls of those whom he despised.
As much as looking after the thankless elf's fëa for all the Ages of Arda was not appealing, it was the will of Eru, the price Fëanáro would pay for his actions. Námo would not gainsay it.
The tears still fell, but Námo was somewhat comforted by the fact a scant few heeded his warning (for a warning it was, given out of love for those who were lost to the darkness of Melkor's hatred and lies), and turned back. Prince Arafinwë and many of his followers, after hearing the Doom, forsook the march, retracing their steps back to Tirion. At least his decision meant the Noldor whom hadn't been caught up in this madness of Fëanáro's would still have a King to lead and guide them in Aman.
One whose heart and fëa had not been seduced to believing the lies of the Valar's fallen brother.
Námo continued staring down dispassionately on those trudging past, even as he felt his heart breaking. The sight of many elleth, and even a few tiny elflings, with the departing Noldor caused fresh tears to leak out of the Doomsman of Arda's eyes. Those innocent children would suffer the most in this; their delicate fëar would be forever marred by what they would see and experience.
By what they had already seen and experienced. The horrifying events at Alqualondë would not be soon forgotten by any.
As he thought that, one little elleth (who couldn't have been older than half a year) passed by him, held securely in her mother's arms. The little one looked up at him with curiosity. Though she was way too young to understand what was happening, a hint of worry and confusion was evident in her clear grey eyes. Seeing a vision of that same elfling, barely bigger than she was now, coming to his Halls alone, in pain and fear, caused the tears to start anew.
Not that any of the Elder saw them.
As he watched the last of the Noldor host who would ignore his warning pass him, disappearing around the headland, Námo wept inconsolably. His tears finally being spent, he spoke in a broken voice that was barely above a whisper.
"Oh Fëanáro. Child of Eru, what hath thou done?"
Half a Valinor year old means the child would be about 4-5 solar years.
A/N The Sequel to Óravassë, Redemption Chronicles, is coming, I promise. It is about half written at this point, and we already have over 40 chapters. Plot Bunnies are really having a festival with this one, when they are around at least. I am actually thinking of splitting the story into multiple parts, due to the length it is going to be by the end.
Also, there will be a Part 2 to this story, about Vairë having to record the events of the First Kinslaying. Poor Vairë. Poor Námo. Their jobs are not easy.
Reviews are appreciated, and may help fuel Plot Bunny to hurry up and finish writing Redemption...