Prologue: Words That Condemn

The Halls of Mandos were as quiet as ever. Even the souls of the dead barely stirred. Its ruler, Námo, as was his name in Quenyan, an old Elvish dialect, sat on his throne in silent brooding. He was troubled very deeply this hour, something he rarely experienced, and he could not quite place his finger on why. So he took a moment to observe the familiar surroundings of his halls. Perhaps something in the tangible world was giving him some unsettling feelings. On the contrary, perhaps something familiar could distract him for even a brief minute.

The throne room was utterly silent. Not a sound stirred. It was almost ominous, even to the Doomsman himself. However, nothing changed physically about the room. It was a cavern, stone gray walls and flooring forming the foundations. Neutral carpet, wooden furniture, and an unlit candle or two were the common features. The room would be dull and uninteresting if not for the elegant, beautiful tapestries which lined each wall. Námo's wife Vairë designed them herself, and as her husband, he has had much respect for her talent as an artist in this regard. However, the tapestries did not always bring the Lord of the Dead comfort. These tapestries had a certain wisdom and magical nature; they documented crucial events in the history of Arda. Most of the events they depicted belonged to the particularly significant turning points of the Elder Days, such as the battles from the War of the Jewels, the Kinslayings, and the exile of Melkor.

Melkor. That name suddenly brought Námo some ill pause. Manwë's brother in spirit as dictated by Eru Illúvitar in the Beginning, but his brother in morality most definitely not. Perhaps the most fundamental difference between Manwë and Melkor were their inherent views on life and how it was intended to be treated. The former had an utmost reverence for life in all its forms, and tried his hardest to promote such a thing as much as possible, which was why the Lord of the Skies and Ulmo, the Lord of Waters, communicated so well with one another. Together, they cultivated a Land which could support the Firstborn, the Secondborn, and so forth, but with that cultivation, attracted the Dark Hunter.

In Námo's opinion, Manwë's most fatal flaw was his infinitely good heart. While he had so much respect for and had to defer his actions to this King of the Valar, Manwë could not recognize the extent of Melkor's evil and lies, because the former believed Morgoth had a suppressed good heart, or at least could be capable of doing good. This was why he opted to release his brother in spirit from imprisonment within just a few centuries. Even if Melkor had been genuine in his intentions to change for the better, Námo still would not have been convinced. The extent of Melkor's treachery and crimes were too farfetched to be pardoned.

Námo did not even believe Melkor was capable of showing any repentance or guilt for his actions, which was where the distinction drew itself between him and Manwë. If Manwë was the angel incarnate, then Melkor was the devil incarnate. Melkor was a true villian; he had no respect for life, and sought to corrupt its beauty in any way possible. Námo knew exactly why this was the case; no individual was born or created to have evil intentions.

In the Beginning, the Music of the Ainur enchanted and soothed all but Melkor. For a reason no one could truly understand, not even Illuvitar, the Dark Hunter was disturbed and traumatized by the Music. He had tried to disrupt the notes with his own three times, failing upon the third attempt, which theoretically drove him down a dark path.

To Námo, this wasn't enough damning proof Melkor needed to be cast into oblivion, even though it was nigh implausible for anyone to despair to the Music. It was certainly a lead, but not a condemnation. When you judged individuals for their crimes, you had to investigate and analyze the cold facts and evidence based on the person's actions, judging with little emotion or compassion. Melkor had driven Mairon, or Sauron, to corruption. Melkor had deceived the Noldor many times in their search for the Silmarils. Melkor had murdered and tortured thousands. Melkor had drowned civilizations. What it amounted to was a fiend who had an extremely dubious sense of morality, if he had a sense of morality at all, little respect for life, and a desire to corrupt anything for his own motives.

In the end, Melkor was cast into the Void bound by the unbreakable chains of Angainor to ensure his Fate.

Fate. Fate was an interesting word, most peculiar to Námo's thoughts. Was it truly Melkor's Fate to remain trapped in the Void for an eternity? Even for a Vala, a being with a very different sense of time and space then an Elf or Man's, eternity was an unfathomably long time. And Melkor was regrettably the most powerful of the Valar aside from his brother. Perhaps imprisonment would have only added to his hatred for Arda's denizens and made him stronger? Perhaps even strong enough to one day break free from his chains? What would Arda do if he ever returned? This, Námo pondered on for many long hours, which only pressed his uneasy thoughts.

Then, from underneath the hood of his cloak, his bright gray eyes that seemed to peer into the Cosmos whenever one looked into them, strayed upward to face the graceful stride of a Valië. She was tall and thin, and more beautiful than the most exquisite of Ellethin. Her wavy hair touched the middle of her back and colored as blonde as celandine. Her facial features were well defined, and her lips pale but so dazzling. She wore an alluring red cloak from her shoulders and bare chest down to her bare knees, and she was barefoot as well, showing off her smooth skin in both places. She was none other than Vairë, the Ever-weaving and the Wife of Mandos.

She bent down respectfully and kissed her husband's hand. "My Lord," Vairë hummed in Valarin, voice infused with love and reverence for the Doomsman.

"My Lady," Námo bellowed his reply, also in Valarin, his voice contrasting with her melodic hum. It was a voice that all who faced his judgment feared and recoiled. Even so, his voice still betrayed his love and reverence for his wife in turn.

"You seem troubled at this hour, my dearest husband," Vairë observed with the most curious and knowing, yet concerned, of all smiles, "What claims your mind?"

Námo did not return the smile. Instead, he turned his pensive stare towards one of his wife's tapestries on the western wall. "Serious matters," he mumbled, "For a reason I cannot name, the Dark Enemy has occupied my sight for some time."

Vairë looked surprised as she stood up to face him properly. "Do you speak of Melkor?" When her husband nodded to confirm her idea, she continued, "He has been imprisoned for many Ages, why do you think of him? He is no longer ours to concern with."

The Lord of the Dead shook his head warily. "He may be bound in the Timeless Void for this time," he explained, dire concern edged in his voice, "But Middle-Earth grows weary. And just as much, the chains that bind him do not stay strong forever, no matter how much I wish it. I feel he has grown stronger with his resentment of Arda by each passing Age."

"Is Angainor not intended to weaken his potential?" Vairë mused.

"Only until the End of Days, my dearest," Námo explained regretfully, "Every world has a Beginning and an End, even the Creator is aware of this. Eternity is too long a time for a world to remain in a state of existence. As I said, Middle-Earth and her peoples are weary, and that is a sign enough of her End."

"I have seen things over the past few centuries," he continued when Vairë didn't reply, "A realization I came to only a few moments ago... I believe Melkor has exposed a loophole during his long exile."

"What do you speak of?" Vairë's eloquent featues turned into an apphrensive frown.

"A Firstborn," he mused, "One of the few who chose to remain in Middle-Earth... To what extent I do not know, but-"

Then, without warning, Mandos felt his vision dim, and he keeled over from his wooden chair, opening his mouth as if to scream but no sound came forth from his parted lips. He fell to the stone floor, and felt himself paralyzed in a fetal position.

"My Lord?!" Vairë screamed in distress and alarm, "Mandos?! No!"

With dimmed gray eyes and double vision, he saw his wife staring at him, shaking with agitation and fear. Then, as if forces beyond his control were willing him to speak, he bellowed in a dark, dreadful monotone, "The world is old, the Powers grow weary... as the Guard sleepeth, He shall come back from the Timeless Void through the Door of Night, break the Sun and Moon, and descend upon Arda as a flame, wiped and terrible..."

Then, his vision grew dark, and the Lord of the Dead's words and judgment commanded his Dead no longer...