Valinor, Halls of the Dead: T.A. 2989

It was a blessing in truth that no Elf till now had died, for if they had tried to enter the once hallowed halls of Mandos, they would have found themselves sadly turned away at the gates, or worse yet… let inside. For not even his fellow Valar were brave enough to enter into Mandos' domain as it was now. However, Milui had little choice in the matter, he'd been struck down by an orc blade and now it was either risk the eternal darkness of Mandos or return to Arda as an aimless spirit for the rest of his days.

Before him stretched a long tunnel, of which he knew he either must brave or turn away from, like the coward he really was. Like always he procrastinated the choice, dawdling just within the gates between life and death, unsure on what do. He had never been particularly strong willed or decisive in life, well, he'd never really had to be. It wasn't as if he was a great leader of elves, he'd been a cook, for Manwë's sake! Not even an army cook, just your regular everyday household cook that had the poor fortune to get an orc blade in his belly when his lord's household had been ambushed from the south. He'd never had to decide something this important, even cooking decisions had been decided by the head cook – which wasn't him thank the Valar.

He would have cracked under all that pressure.

In his uncertainty about his path Milui had waited too long – the choice had been taken from his hands, and he found himself moving unconsciously closer to the bright door ahead of him. Beyond the faintly glowing door he could hear voices. They were singing in a low and enticing key that made the very hairs on his head curl just to hear it. He was still half humming that tune when he passed through the open door and joined in the song in its entirety.

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Valinor, Halls of Mandos, Mandos' private chamber: seven months later

'Námo is no more.'

That was the phrase the mighty Mandos repeated over and over in the privacy of his own head, not because he wanted to, but because he had to. How else was he going to drum it in, how else was he going to take it as gospel? For, though parts of him still resisted, it truly was that – the evidence alone was damning: Lord Námo had been well respected among his fellow Valar, Mandos was sniggered at when he walked by. Námo had had loving wife, Mandos had not seen his own wife for years. Whether of her own will or his, Mandos was no longer quite sure anymore. He had not been fooled by that imp the other Valar had sent into his domain. He had known it was not Vairë, he would have never hurt Vairë. The others, those once trusted kin of his, had taken their creature away still sobbing, still pretending it was Vairë, but Mandos knew better. Most of all though, it was the fact that the dead flinched from his touch, an act they had never committed against the surprisingly benevolent Námo, so it was obvious now to him really…whoever Námo had been, it wasn't him.

'My Lord N…Mandos' The voice that interrupted him was small and could barely be heard over the hypnotic chanting of the rest of the dead, but it was still undeniably there – a fact that irked the Lord of Mandos deeply.

'Yes Milui? This had better be something actually important, or you'll find your afterlife growing even more desolate than it has been.'

The Valar of Death turned and faced his subject in full, and surveyed the rather limp looking Fëa. Perhaps there was little more that Mandos could do to the weak spirit that his own domain hadn't already: the height that had made the elf seem misleadingly impressive in life, now made him seem gaunt and bony. And his once fat and rosy cheeks had hollowed and paled till they resembled much more a skeleton than the gentle cherub that had bounced into his kingdom so many… what was it? Weeks, months, he really couldn't tell anymore.

'Yes, my lord, very important indeed, we've done it! The Passage is complete!'

Milui had to leap out of the way as the lord of Mandos came barrelling out of his room and down the hall whence the fëa had come from, faster than a stallion in heat. Milui sunk to the floor, relief washing over him like a cool splash of water; it was over, it was all finally over.

The Passage of the Dead as it was so affectionately called by the denizens of Mandos, had been many centuries in the making. In fact, you could even go so far as to say that Mandos had been working on this 'project' since the moment of his own creation.

Because the true and undeniable fact of Mandos was that nobody liked being in Mandos: not even the lord of it.

A few centuries back Vairë had somehow convinced her husband to stop, that what he was doing was wrong and, being the naive fool he'd been back then, he'd believed her. So, he had stopped, filled in what had already been dug out and went about the task that had been assigned to him: keeping the dead inside Mandos. But that had been years ago, before Fëanor had escaped, before Námo's beloved wife had begun to despise him, before she sealed herself away in her sewing room. Over-hyped seamstress – she was better off behind that door.

Thus, without his wife to temper him, and with the daily taxation on his mind that was the hatred and scorn from those he had once called kin, Mandos had allowed his old project to rekindle. Now, for many that had died construction of this mighty tunnel became their entire world.

Its purpose was something strange and alien to the Halls of Waiting, for it was not built for containment like most creations under this cursed roof. Twas to be, or so the Mighty lord of Mandos proclaimed, their road to salvation and at long last freedom. And now it was finished, after all this time and bloodshed the thing was finally finished!

All that they had to do now, was wait and see what Mandos' final verdict would be.

Slowly the Valar of Death moved down the line of workers, as he passed each Fëa bowed their head in deference. Finally, he reached the end of the line to where the head foreman stood, neither of them acknowledged one another, instead turning their joint gazes to the magnitude in front of them. The long tunnel shimmered and glistened with gem stones, some which would never yet be discovered on mortal soil. If Mandos tilted his head just right, a cool breeze could brush his upturned features with a gentle touch that made the lord of Mandos giggle with delight. He clapped his hands together, making a harsh sound that called all to attention and echoed around the passage of the dead like so much resounding applause.

'It is done my children, ready yourselves for our journey.'

Cheers and cries of joy erupted around the stony Valar, as his subjects celebrated their success. He paid them no mind, no, the lord of the dead was perfectly content to stand there, in the middle of the revelry, stiller now then the very dead themselves.

So soon, so soon and he would be gone and not a soul was going to stop him this time.