Valinor, Halls of the dead; 2980th year of the third age of Middle Earth, 5 days since the escape of Fëanor

Deep in the heart of Mandos, Námo sat, hunched over on his great throne of stone, and thought. He thought of many things, here and there, rising and falling under the watchful eyes of the sun; but ultimately what each thought lead back to, was that one creature who had tormented him for longer than mere time could tell: Fëanor, son of Finwë.

He'd retired to his throne room as soon as the council had disbanded for the day, unwilling to linger a second longer than necessary. There was no need really to invite such probing questions from the other Valar, as like there would have been if he'd lingered. He'd told them all that they required to know to catch the confounded convict, he'd even let it slip of the silence now bouncing around his skull like so much wasted space. What else did they want…blood?

Aye, his blood, Námo could well believe it of Fëanor to be after such a sustenance, but maybe he thought too little of his colleagues. Or maybe he thought too highly, after all they knew not what was coming if Fëanor did not return to his place soon. Then again, the Valar of the Dead supposed, neither did he, now.

He was as blind as the rest of them.

Such could only be the will of Eru Ilúvatar.

Halls of Mandos, Vairë's chambers; Eight years since the escape of Fëanor

Vairë's loom clattered to the floor. She wasn't sure whether she'd thrown it herself out of her own frustration, or it had simply slipped from her ungainly fingers. No tale she had attempted to weave this day had turned out how it aught. Why just look at Varda's hair, it resembled more a puddle of faeces then the thick chocolate locks of her fellow Valar! Now she, and her hand maidens, stumbled and hesitated over her own husband's image. What was wrong with her? How hard should weaving her own husband's likeness into their tapestries be? Yet every time she tried, someone would fumble, or a strand would snap and each time it would unravel leaving nothing but an ungainly mess of thread and wool tangled round her loom. At last she'd called enough and sent her hand maidens away; they need not be troubled by the sight of their mistress in such a tizzy.

The weaver of the Valar crumpled to the floor, burying her head in her arms – such was her agony. This could only be the work of some foul demon from the deepest depths of Morgoth's imagination. Surely, she had not lost her skill for no other reason but forgetfulness, her skill, that she had spent beyond measure of eons perfecting. Surely such a well-honed thing should not be so easily forgotten by just a click of a finger, but then Vairë supposed, that would depend on the finger that clicked.
Oh, Eru no, she had to speak to her husband right away.

Vairë stumbled through her husband's halls; they had never been quite so dark before to her recollection. No, not quite true, they had always been dark, it was how most fëa wanted to spend their afterlife or so Námo said, but she'd never found herself blinded by the darkness before. The weaver of the Valar had trouble believing it was just her memory failing her this time, there was something going on in the halls of Mandos, and she found it hard to believe that her sudden lack of skill in her art, was not somehow connected. She did not know how long she'd been immersed in her craft – due to their differing natures, her chambers did not exactly work on the same timeframe as the rest of her husband's realm. Why she remembered one time, she thought she'd lost a day buried in her art, and when she emerged it turned out she'd been away for a year. And yet the world had not changed as greatly then, as it had now. How long had she been away this time?

'Námo!' She called, trepidation making her voice shake as it'd never done before. 'My love, if you are there call back to me.'

Something hard hit her outstretched foot and she drew it back with a hiss and a yelp; whatever she had mistakenly struck seemed to detest the contact as much as she, for it let out an almighty groan. Deep and low it was, like an awaiting thunder storm readying to strike. She knew that sound.

'Námo?'

'Who's there? Who trespasses on my peace?' Said her husband. 'Be off with you I say, before I lose my patience and do some horrible deed to your person.'

Vairë nearly smiled at this, if circumstances had been merrier, she may well have laughed. 'I would like to see you try Husband of mine.' There was a gasp from the vicinity of her toes.

'Vairë? Nay it is not so, tis but the silence playing more tricks on me. It likes to do that you know, won't let me alone, even when I close my eyes against it, there is the beast screaming in my ears. Well it won't destroy this Valar, not today …'
Vairë's smile had dropped altogether from her face and she involuntarily stepped back.

'You'll find me quite real and substantial my love, if you would but reach out and take my hand.' In saying so she extended her own hand towards the sound of his heavy breathing, and waited patiently for him to grasp at it. He didn't, instead there were the sounds of someone shuffling with quite haste away from her.

'I'm no fool, I was doomsayer for more years then mortals can count; many have tried to trick me before you, sprite, and with much better and greater tales then you have twisted here today.' Vairë stepped forward, though both caution and good sense told her to remain where she was.

'Námo please, come to my voice and I will lead you back to the light. There is nothing in me for you to fear.' The laugh that greeted this statement was hard and brittle, certainly not the sound she had grown to treasure so over the millennium.

'Now that is a tale none have been so daring to try to whisper in my ear before today, well done, sprite. Regardless though I'll still not be caught in thy web, Vairë would not come to this place now, it is far too dark and dank for one of such beauty to sully themselves with. I would think my beloved would have enough sense to avoid it, if she possibly could. Be gone with you now or I'll set my hounds on you. Well, I suppose they're not really so much hounds as they are, well…Fëa.'

Around them the walls began to glow, and blank figures peeled themselves away from them, and trudged towards the now illuminated pair. With her fear growing with every laboured step the creatures took towards them, Vairë finally looked down and met her husband's eyes for the first time, and what she saw in their dark depths scared her more than all the fëa lodged in these halls could ever hope to: madness, true and unyielding madness.

Her scream could be heard in every corner of Valinor and even across the sea, in the lands of mortals, they could hear a change in the wind as if…as if something terrible had happened. So terrible that it woke many a great King of men, Elf or Dwarf from their slumber in a fit of terror.