Do not own these characters or the cover art.
Amras Feanorion knew only one thing for certain. One indisputable thing.
He was dead.
There was a cloth pulled over his memory and mind, one that blocked out what had happened, but he knew his fate to be death for certain.
Why else would he feel like a spirit without substance, a ghost without skin to cover him?
Why else could he touch the air around him, and yet not need to breathe?
He could feel his body form itself into a shape. Fabric wrapped around his limbs; soft, copper hair bounded down his shoulders. But he could not see. Amras blindly shifted his head around, letting his senses as a hunter guide him instead.
It was cold in the Halls of Mandos, something he didn't expect it to be. The frigid chill was a dark, black one; that he knew, even without seeing. It felt like shards of ice laid over his fëar, a shirt of chain links or the mail of fish scales, fitted seamlessly into each other, folding and clicking when he moved.
Amras could also observe the heat on his spirit, one that was too hot to be from the far-away sun. Most likely from torches, then. The stone was smooth beneath his palms, and he realized all in an instant that he was on his hands and knees.
He could hear nothing but water, trickling in an insistent drip-dripping. The wind whistled from somewhere, a haunting call of taunts.
Yet it the scents he found braided together that shook him the most. Unsurprisingly, they were conjoined in a senseless mess, fading in and out in the spaces between like the different colors reflected on the horizon at dawn. What surprised him was what these smells were. There was the overbearing presence of flowers and the woody scent of trees. But there was also the tint of death, like rot and blood and sweat.
Battle and suffering and pain.
Sight came to him in an instant, and it was so sudden and blaring that his eyes squeezed shut on instinct. When the light penetrating his eyelids had dulled to a dim ache, he opened his silver-blue orbs. He kneeled in front of a throne. The ceiling was high and rose above him. It was supported by pillars of great stone, carved intricately with swirls and lines. There were torches on each and the walls were closed, without windows to let in the light of day.
And there, are the throne in front of him, was a tall, hooded figure.
Námo.
For a moment, Amras could not speak, unsure of what to say. But then the Valar's booming voice crossed across the room in a grim calmness.
"Welcome to my halls, Telufinwë Ambarussa Minyarussa. Youngest of Fëanor and Nerdanel. House of Finwë." Amras swallowed past the dryness in his throat, staring up into the gaping maw of the hood's shadow, covering his face.
"Thank you, Lord Námo."
The Valar's laugh was even impossibly deeper than his tone.
"Do not act as if you wish to be here, Telufinwë." Amras could not wait any longer. He was the reckless twin, always had been, always had known it too.
"My lord… where is my twin?" For a moment, Námo did not speak. And when he did, the elf realized how off-guard he had caught the keeper of the dead.
"…Your twin? Pityafinwë Ambarussa Umbarto Ambarto Atyarussa?"
"…Yes, my lord." He replied with sudden worry. For a full minute, the seated figure did not react at all. Then, with slow hands, the Valar reached up and tugged down the hood that ringed his face, letting his raven hair grace down his shoulders. But what stood out to Amras was his eyes.
Black as pitch, and just as dark and… ironically, lifeless.
It made sense, he supposed. He knew the plan of Eru Illuvatar. The tragedies and horrors…
"Amras Feanorion… Your twin is not here." That startled the elf more than anything else he could have said.
"…What?" He choked out in a murmured cry. Námo stood from his throne and kneeled down next to the elf.
"Amras Feanorion… Your twin never came to my halls." The Valar told him sadly.
"But… he died in the Burning of the Ships; how could he…" He looked up at Lord Námo with helpless eyes.
And his pleading face was so heartbroken that Námo's resolve shattered.
"Amras Feanorion…" He began quietly, "I cannot reveal the plan of Atar… but…" The Valar reached out a pale hand and touched one finger to the elf's forehead.
And images, memories, moments filled his mind.
The fire was hot and Valar, it burned.
Sputtering, smoke filling his lungs.
Wood cracking and ashes flying and sparks jumping and timber falling…
An explosion of sound and light and…
Cold.
Oh, Eru, it was cold.
Cold; cold; cold; cold.
But it soothed him. Arms around his burned limbs.
Sinking into the sea...
Comfort...
But the beach...
Sand.
Grainy beneath his hands and then...
And then...
Darkness.
And the darkness shivered.
Amras stumbled back, eyes watering.
"What was that? Why did it go black?" He asked quickly, in too much of a haste to slow down with a 'my lord'. Námo sighed a low one that rumbled in his throat.
"I showed you fragments of memories, from Pityafinwë as he escaped the ships that your father lit on fire." Amras winced. "Why did it blacken? When Pityafinwë reached the shore, he fell unconscious."
"Where is he? What happened to him?" Námo paused.
"Where he is and why is part of Atar's plan, one that I cannot tell without the word of either him or that of the Elder King's." Amras slumped on the ground, bowing his head.
His brother was gone.
And he knew not where.
"But..." Námo continued, "I supposed telling you something small won't ruin it..." The Valar stood, and his eyes shone with dark majesty. "Here is all I shall reveal to you, Telufinwë Ambarussa Minyarussa, your brother lays within the sight of scarred eyes and within the reach of burned hands."
With that, the strangest sensation came over him. And as Amras looked down, he saw that he was turning to pieces, fading, falling to smoke.
And when his body reformed, Námo was nowhere in sight.
Author's Note:
Hope you enjoyed! I'm planning on giving it three more chapters.
Translations:
Atar: Father (What the Valar and Maiar call Eru)