Mandos liked his job as Lord of the Halls of the Dead. It was a very easy job because there were no Dead to watch and keep in line. He liked sitting in his favorite chair in the grandest hall, all alone, and sing and talk to himself for hours on end. Sometimes his wife, Vairë, would come in, and tell him something about keeping up appearances, which would spoil it all.
"It doesn't look very well for the Lord of the Dead to be talking to himself," Vairë told him, hanging up her newest tapestry. All her tapestries looked the same to Mandos: the same old tree, the same old bird, the same boring old Vanyarin elf. Nothing happened in Aman to otherwise inspire her.
"Who's going to know besides you?" Mandos grumbled.
"The Dead," she said darkly.
"In case you haven't noticed, there are no Dead."
Vairë sighed. "But there will be. You, with your all-seeing powers, know it, and that's why we have Halls for the Dead in the first place!"
"Maybe if people listen to my advice, we won't need it." Mandos assumed a haughty look.
Vairë glowered. "Yes, if you bothered to tell us!"
Mandos waved his hand dismissively. "Everything's so peaceful, I wouldn't worry about it."
Then one day, a dazed-looking spirit wandered into the Halls.
Mandos didn't notice at first. He sat in his chair in the great hall, reciting some of Tulkas' well-meant, but awful poetry.
"Hello?" came an uncertain voice behind him.
He yelped and fell out of his chair. From where he lay, he could see a gray-clad elleth hugging her arms. Her eyes were round with bewilderment. Groaning, he struggled to his feet, and faced the spirit. "Hello." They stared at each other for a long minute. Mandos looked up at the unfathomable ceiling rising above them, then back at the elleth. "Um, welcome, I guess."
She shrugged. She didn't seem terribly excited.
Mandos tried again. "Sorry, I've never done this before."
She nodded in understanding.
"So, who are you?"
"Míriel Serindë."
Manos frowned. The name sounded familiar. Perhaps if he spent more time out with the elves instead of reciting Tulkas' poetry, he wouldn't be so clueless. "Weren't you . . . married to someone?"
Míriel looked a little offended. "My husband was Finwë, king of the Noldor."
"Oh." Mandos shifted from one foot to the other. "Uh, how did you die?"
She lowered her head. "My spirit was drained when I gave birth to my first and only son, Fëanor. I felt too weary to continue living, so I relinquished my spirit."
"Wow." He wondered if the rest of the Dead (if there was going to be any more at all) would die in like manner. He soon saw this would be impossible for quite a few people, and rejected the idea. After another moment, he gestured to the great, empty halls around them. "Well, feel free to explore. I'm afraid there's not much to do here. My wife makes nice tapestries." He pointed to her latest creation.
Míriel brightened. "I love making tapestries."
Mandos smiled. "Good! Then why don't you join my wife? She's down that hall, then down the third hall on your left, then down another hall at the end of that one, and then down the next one, either the right or the left one, I don't remember which. Honestly, I don't know why we made these things so big." He left her, feeling like he did a pretty decent job for his first time.
Some time later, Manwë summoned all the Valar into the Máhanaxar to hear the case of Melkor, that rebellious Ainu who had to go ahead and wreck the Music, and then the things that the Music made. Mandos didn't really know why Manwë had promised to hear out Melkor after three ages. It was quite obvious Melkor was evil to the core, but Manwë seemed to think there was still some good in him. Mandos wanted to argue that there was never any good in him, but seeing how Manwë was the Lord of all Arda, there was only so far he could pursue going against his counsels before Manwë might start thinking about chaining him up for three ages.
Mandos kept silent as Melkor pleaded (in a highly irritating, whiny voice) how so very sorry he was, and that if Manwë set him free he would do much better and would even fix everything he'd done. Mandos found this unnecessary; all the elves who mattered were in Aman, just leave the rest.
And then Nienna, that sob-story, spoke up, "Yes, forgive him, Lord Manwë!"
A brief image flashed through Mandos' head, many-layered and terrible: three jewels, a land covered in blood, fire on water and swan ships, smoke from dark mountains, a devious javelin, a white horse lost forever in a black land, a very strange (and deeply troubling) elleth in black singing before someone who looked familiar, a hill of death and a sea of tears, a floating maiden, a forest (and a city) lost in fire and blood, a star and a black beast, a single cry of utter despair, and a lonely figure on a forgotten shore.
Reeling from the vision, Mandos blinked, and tried to focus on something. Vairë, sitting beside him, gave him an odd look, to which he responded with only a sick grin. He returned his gaze once more to Melkor, who had an incredibly fake smile pasted on his face. I wonder if I should say something, he thought, glancing round at the rest of the Valar. He recalled what Vairë had said about disclosing his advice. But Manwë and the others were smart. He was just the Lord of the Dead and the one Eru Illúvatar happened to give premonitions to. And it wasn't like the entire fate of Arda hinged on whether or not Melkor went free. After a further moment of consideration, Mandos shrugged his shoulders. Ah, maybe they'll figure it out.
They didn't.
Hello again! This story is based off this passage in The Silmarillion, when Melkor is being tried for the first time, found in the chapter Of Fëanor and the Unchaining of Melkor:
"And Nienna aided his [Melkor's] prayer; but Mandos was silent."
And I'm thinking, if there was ever a time for Mandos to say something, it would have been then.
I hope you enjoyed my story! Please tell me what you think!
Much love,
Unicadia