The Pity of Námo
...Gollum on the edge of the abyss fought like a mad thing against an unseen foe. To and fro he swayed, so near the brink that he almost tumbled in, dragged back, fell to the ground, rose, and fell again. And all the while he hissed but spoke no words.
The fires below awoke in anger, the red light blazed, and all the cavern was filled with a great glare and heat. Suddenly, Gollum's long hands drew upwards to his mouth; his white fangs gleamed, and then snapped as they bit. Frodo gave a cry, and there he was, fallen upon his knees at the chasm's edge. But Gollum, dancing like a mad thing, held aloft the Ring, a finger still thrust within its circle. It shone as if verily it was wrought of living fire.
"Precious, precious, precious!" Gollum cried. "My precious! O my Precious!" And with that, even as his eyes were lifed up to gloat about his prize, he stepped too far, toppled, wavered for a moment on the brink, and then with a shriek he fell. Out of the depths came his last wail Precious, and he was gone.
No! NO! MY PRECIOUS!
The decrepit Halfling awoke with a start, eyes darting about to and fro, searching for a source of light. Normally, he could have discerned such a thing with ease, but Gollum suddenly found himself… Blind.
Reaching up to scratch his head, Gollum caught hold of something soft and wooly. He ran his hands through the material to make sure – yes! This was hair! He remembered gazing at it in the waters of the Gladden Fields, near his home-
It was then that Gollum noticed his shortened fingernails, which he used to prod at this thing clinging to his – wool! It was much warmer than his old loincloth (the best he could do after being flung from his community by his grandmother, the lying, filthy, gollum-)
A side door opened with a bang, and a tall figure entered the room, flanked by two shorter guards. The Secret Fire burned brightly within them, brightly illuminating their surroundings (and forcing Gollum to squint something terrible.) It seemed as if they glided across the threshold, brining light into the darkness, akin to the rising of the sun. The Tall One sat on the Throne of Doom. Gollum found himself staring into the grey eyes of a Man, with flowing dark hair, and a gloomy attire to match.
He wore a blackened tunic laced with dark pearls, beneath which was a grey shirt. His gloves and boots were of an odd shade of violet, perhaps appearing more to be indigo, and were interlaced with curving lines and stalwart fringes. His leggings were thin, the color of sea-gray, as the Elves would call it. A slim crown of a delicate, silvery metal adorned his dark hair.
"You are Trahald of the Stoors?" The voice was soothing, comforting… yet foreboding, as if any second its bearer would pronounce its victim doomed to the Everlasting Darkness. His lips were firm, and his brow stern. Overall, he appeared to be impassive. Not even the slighted shred of pity could be gleaned through his shield.
Gollum struggled for a moment, searching the deep recesses of his faulty memory. He clawed at his tunic, trying to think of a time before the darkness, before the - "Fishes and splashes – yes, Precious! But, what is it? Why is it so bright, Precious? Gollum!"
"I have many names… Not unlike you, I think… I am Bannoth, of the Fëanturi. I am the Doomsman of Arda, the Lord of Mandos… But you may call me Námo." At his naming, the Vala's soothing voice suddenly deepened and a great tremor ran through the Halls. He inclined his head a little at the Stoor, and his lips twitched, as if he were amused by his extensive list of styles, and the accompanying quakes that came with them.
Although now aware that he was called before a being of immense Power, the name held little meaning to Trahald, and all of those titles and formalities…. Trahald felt at his throat - it was becoming a great deal less sore than usual, requiring him to swallow less horribly, and he found that he could not allow himself to keep crouching on the floor, as a beast of the earth. He stood up straight, looking the Vala straight in the eye, and was struck at how much he had changed in the time he had me this great being. Grinding his teeth in consternation, the Hobbit glanced about him, searching for a sign of familiarity.
The Throne Room of Mandos was a dark, gloomy place, as were the rest of his Halls. A pervading mist hung about the exterior, and one could barely see across its interior, save for a few torches affixed to the walls, or the light emanating from the three figures before the fallen Hobbit. The servants of the Tall One stood on either side of the Throne of Doom, their faces revealing nothing, not even the tiniest hint of sorrow for the restored creature before them and their master.
Several tapestries could now be seen shining through the mist and the darkness. These had been crafted by the wife of Námo, Vairë the Weaver and Queen of Mandos. Like the Halls of its name, her tapestries grew and expanded as the world aged. Her work was remarkably familiar - two cousins fishing by a river bank, one of them being cast from his home, a dark cavern, with not a single ray of light - but her most recent work depicted a fight amidst the flame of a dark mountain, and a wretched creature tumbling into the abyss, his only companion, his persistent enemy – a bright, golden Ring, inscribed in the ancient Tengwar script, appearing of little import, yet was clearly the center of interest.
The Stoor gasped. He began to walk towards the tapestry, his arm outstetched, as if to grasp the Ring from the embroidered scene - but he then halted his path. Lowering his arm, he cried, "My birthday present! How – how is it that I am here, precious?"
"At Manwë's behest, I spoke your own doom many a year ago. You thus played your part in Arda – as the One intended. The Ring has been destroyed... by you."
Trahald stood, affixed, stunned by this news, then began to wail. He flung himself to the ground before the Vala and began to rock on the floor, his arms holding his legs in his body. "My Precious is lost! Curse them! Curse the Bagginses! They stole it from me! Filthy little Shirelings!" He continued to sob, as the burdens of five centuries were eased from his spirit.
Námo gazed at the pitiful creature before him. "The Ring was never yours to begin with, my child, and it has done you only more harm than good. The Pity of the Bagginses, for your sake, you have answered only with cruelty. Whatever grievances lay between you and the Shire-folk, you had better put them to their well-deserved rest – no Power in Arda can now remake that which ensnared so many minds.
"The Ring no longer has any power over you, Trahald, nor on Frodo or Bilbo Baggins, or on Samwise Gamgee, even unto the beasts of the field and the birds of the sky. You have saved them all, my child."
Trahald hesitated. "But… My present… It came to me! My love, my Precious…. Augh, how I hates it! How did it grip me, Mandoses? I was a good Hobbit! Why did it have to come to me?"
Námo retorted, "A good Hobbit? I understand your familial quarrels, but you did not learn from them. For the Ring's sake, you murdered your cousin Nahald and used its power to stir up all kinds of mischief and thievery in your community. Your doom was writ in the stars, Trahald, but only you are responsible for how you respond to Fate. I fear that you have done rather poorly for yourself."
Mandos rose and took the placed his hand on Trahald's back, causing him to flinch and pull away, receding into his shield. After a moment of sniffling up his tears (and other excretions), the Hobbit raised his head and found an ornately carved high-backed chairs facing the Throne of Doom. At the Vala's prodding, Trahald rose and hesitantly sat in the chair, looking quite dwarfed by the great cushions. Námo turned his back to the Hobbit and resumed his seat, waving his hand to dismiss the Maiar. The bowed to the Vala, and exited via the side door.
The Vala began, "Let us revisit your last few moments. Frodo had expended all of his will power, to bring his burden so far, just above the Crack of Doom. Few, possibly no other, could have gotten so far. However, he failed, and succumbed to the power of the Ring. Then you arrived. You fought and won the Ring."
The Hobbit winced. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time, taking his Precious back from the chasm. Besides, the filthy Baggins used it himself anyway! Hardly much better than the Stoor, in retrospect…
"Frodo's pity did end as any could predict… You both robbed him and injured him in the end-but, by Eru's will, and your own Doom, that last betrayal came at precisely the right juncture, when that evil deed was the best thing any being could have done for Frodo."
Trahald mulled that thought over in his head for a moment, then began to blink rapidly in confusion. "But – but that Fat Hobbit! He could've thrown it in, couldn't he, Mandos?" His voice was beginning to return to normalcy once again, his tongue now able to articulate proper words – and with less hissing.
Mandos leaned forward, resting his arms on his thighs. "The very moment Frodo put on the Ring, Sauron became aware of Its presence within Mordor. At his summons, the Nazgûl raced to Orodruin, the Mountain of Doom. Had you not been there to stop Frodo from escaping the Crack of Doom, they likely would have overtaken him, and restored Mairon to his old power. And Darkness would fall."
"No Child of Eru, neither mortal nor immortal, nor bird of the air nor beast of the field, would have had the strength of will to destroy the Ring, but because of Frodo's mercy given to you, the Other Power then took over: Eru caused you to have a slight mishap, and fall into the abyss. The Pity of Frodo released you both from the Ring, in the end -"
"WHAT!" Trahald's eyes were bugging out now, in their old fashion, and he cried, "Cheats! The Other cheats, Námo! Why not destroy the Pre - the Ring Himself, then, eh?"
Námo sighed in exasperation. "You've just touched upon a rather tiring argument, my child… Suffice it to say, when we Vala last interceded on Arda's behalf, in force, the world was nearly broken, and the lands of Beleriand lost into the sea. If – or rather, when – the Maker Himself comes, it will not be in such an overt manner."
"Regarding the Ring, we did send our own emissaries, and in our own fashion – Curumo, Aiwendil, Morinehtar and Rómestámo, and Olórin – of course, you would know him better as Gandalf the Grey."
The Hobbit shifted in his seat at that name – the Wizard had quizzed Gollum long and hard about the nature of the Ring, eventually uncovering that Sauron had tortured Gollum for information – valid information. The grumpy Istari had then left him in the care of the Wood-elves – Gollum, such nasty creatures, Precious-
"Stay focused, Trahald." The Vala's voice had been stern again, and he felt compelled to lock in on his grey eyes.
"Now, it may be that Eru shall, in another Age, enter Arda of his own volition – not even I can gauge the mind of the One. If He does choose thus, however, it will likely be in a way none would expect. Indeed, He would even herald the Battle of Battles, and the End of Arda.
"So, you see that when we Powers directly involve ourselves, it is only in the direst of need. I am proud to say that you and your kind played a very influential role in these events of late. Eru merely pushed you over the edge… if you will forgive that phrase of speech." At that, Mandos actually looked…. Sheepish.
"Mind you, the Ring had a Will and a Voice all its own. You heard Its speech before on the slopes of the Mountain, I deem – and it did warn you of what would happen should you attempt a final recovery of It. The Ring wanted, and expected, Frodo to succumb – to put It on at the Crack of Doom, and thus alert the Enemy to Its presence. Thankfully, you are rather determined, if a little touched."
Yes, the Hobbit particularly remembered that exchange. His Precious had only spoken to him a few times before, and it had been the only time it had rebuked him, and order him away….
… at its breast it held a wheel of fire. Out of the fire there spoke a commanding voice. "Begone, and trouble me no more! If you touch me ever again, you shall yourself be cast into the Fire of Doom."
From the very beginning, the Ring had been using him – waiting, biding Its time for its Master to regain his strength, and then It abandoned him – first to the older Baggins, and then to the younger. For five centuries, he had been seduced by a lie, then discarded, as if he were a useless scrap of lint, by the wayside.
Trahald whimpered, pulling his legs up into his body – his feet, now respectably furry, resting on the edge of the chair cushion, and muttered savagely, "Why, Nahald my love, I should have just thrown this thing into the Fields-"
"That," the Vala began sharply, "brings us to another, more important era of your life – your falling to the Ring. Either Eru or the Ring, doubtless, incurred a large fish to drag your cousin into the water, and there he found it, on the riverbed. Now, we were all tempted by the Ring of Sauron, and would have done great evils, should we have ever come across it – however, you were a rather sour sort of creature before encountering the thing."
At this, the Stoor had the audacity to look offended. True, he had been a mischievous thief in his old community, but he had certainly had no control over the Ring, and Its influence on him! "How was I supposed to resist that thing? If it was as powerful, as malevolent, as you say, I could not have withheld from it even for a day!"
"Well," Námo replied, "Not even Isildur was drawn into murder for Its sake. You, little more than a thug, have been shown kindness and mercies without end since coming across this thing. Eru is not unjust – he had hoped you would be grateful for these many chances, and repent of your old depravity.
"You, however, have shown little of your own pity in your miserably extended life. Your sins are as countless as the stars, Trahald of the Stoors… You were a thief amongst your people, and when you discovered the Ring, you became a kin-slayer. The blood of Nahald stains your hands-"
Trahald suddenly snarled and looked up, glaring at Mandos. "It wasn't us, my love! Nahald- he was a hoarding, tricksy cousin! The others- they abandoned me! Exiled to marshes and mountains, gollum-"
"Do not revert to your old habits so quickly, my child." The Vala got up, stooped next to the Hobbit and said, "You could have done a great deal of good, for both yourself and for Arda. You held great endurance and courage, though you constantly used these gifts for your own gain. Despite this, you did destroy the Ring of Mairon the Admirable…However, you did so with your usual wickedness and greed – that this worked good, I fear, will be no great credit to you."
The Stoor pulled at his hair and gnashed his now purified teeth, blunt and white. He jittered about, groaning and cursing all the while. "What becomes of us, precious? Of- of me?"
Mandos stood, and gestured to the side door from which he had entered the Throne Room. "Your fate is not mine to decide – these Halls hold none of your kin. You must go on to the Presence of the One."
That title held little meaning to the Hobbit. His face scrunched up in his usual, impudent consternation, and asked rather rudely, "What's that?"
"Who, you mean. Eru dwells beyond the reaches of Eä, in the Timeless Halls. There, you shall dwell until the remaking of Arda… If Eru wills it. Come." Námo offered his hand to Trahald's. The Hobbit stared at it skeptically, fearing that the Tall One could simply drag him into the Everlasting Darkness, a fitting place for him. After a great, extended pause, he took hold of it, pulling him up. Together, the two left the Throne Room.
They entered a great, dark corridor, but with Mandos' presence, they shadows were kept at bay. Trahald shivered in the tunnel – the air cooling with every step he took, and he began to see puffs of air accompanying his breathing. Perhaps, if he turned back, he could still escape-
The Vala's grasp was firm around his fingers, and he sent the Hobbit a soothing glance. Whatever awaited outside the Halls, Trahald could surely endure it with the great being at his side. Swallowing in trepidation, he looked ahead and saw a light at the end of the tunnel.
Beyond the Uttermost West, they came upon Ekkaia, the Encircling Sea. White sand clothed the shoreline. The air was cold, and the sky was dark. Great shards of ice jutted from the calm waters. Stars twinkled in the distance, and Ithil was just beginning to make its descent below the OuterSea. Trahald sighed in content, noting that he could now stand in the gaze of the "White Face," that great vessel that lit the night.
"This vessel shall take you across the OuterSea, into His Presence. Cross the Door of Night, and you shall pass from the boundaries of this world. Know that whatever paths you have taken, you will always be loved." Kissing the Halfling on the brow, Námo helped him into the boat. The Hobbit grinned, his old memories of fishing in the Gladden Fields rushing back to him. He had spent many a day honing his skills in the nautical arts - however miniscule they were to the great sea before him. Taking up the oars, Trahald felt instantly renewed. With all of his old vigor, he plunged the paddles into the cold waters and pushed backwards. He continued rowing as the boat drifted towards the Door of Night, as if being towed by a vessel far greater than his. He began to laugh, as he was drawn ever further from this world.
Suddenly, Trahald was halted by a great fear, a gnawing at the back of his mind. He gazed at the bright moon above, and for the first time, he wondered at his fate beyond the reaches of the world. Would there be a warm reception in the Halls without Time? He had spent many a year brooding over his Precious, malignant and unrepentant, gnawing on bones in the roots of the mountains. Would his old family, cousin and Matron alike, welcome him, the rat, the snake, the black stain upon their house and home, the mean, miserly son of a thief? This "Eru" would surely regard their words as superior to him, who had hidden in the darkness for centuries, abhorring the few mercies of the world.
A bright voice from the shore tore his gaze back to Mandos. The Lord of Mandos had his hand held aloft in farewell, and he cried, "Ai! Áva rucë, Eruhín! Gerich veleth yan…"
Bannoth: (Sindarin) The Sindarin name for Námo.
Fëanturi: (Quenya) Masters of Spirits, titles given to the Valar Irmo (Lórien) and Námo (Mandos).
Trahald: ("Northern Mannish") Gollum's original name, which means "burrowing". This was translated into Old English as Sméagol.
Nahald: ("Northern Mannish") Déagol's original name, which means "hiding". This was translated into Old English as Déagol.
Mairon the Admirable: (Valarin?) The original name of Sauron, a Maia of Aulë the Smith, and forger of the One Ring.
Arda: (Quenya) The world.
Eä: (Quenya) The universe.
Ekkaia: (Quenya) The Outer Sea that encircled all the lands of Arda in ancient times.
"Ai! Áva rucë, Eruhín! Gerich veleth yan…": (Quenya) "Ah! Fear not, Child of Eru! You have His love…"
"Into the ultimate judgement upon Gollum I would not care to enquire. This would be to investigate Goddes privitee', as the Medievals said. Gollum was pitiable, but he ended in persistent wickedness, and the fact that this worked good was no credit to him. His marvellous courage and endurance, as great as Frodo and Sam's or greater, being devoted to evil was portentous, but not honourable.
I am afraid, whatever our beliefs, we have to face the fact that there are persons who yield to temptation, reject their chances of nobility or salvation, and appear to be 'damnable'. Their 'damnability' is not measurable in the terms of the macrocosm (where it may work good). But we who are all 'in the same boat' must not usurp the judge. The domination of the Ring was much too strong for the mean soul of Sméagol. But he would have never had to endure it if he had not become a mean sort of thief before it."
~ J. R. R. Tolkien