Chapter Text
The immortal soul is not meant for nothingness.
The darkness of the Void is surely terrible. It enters greedily through every opening, filling the chest and lungs with a pressure fit to stop the heart. The eyes (it matters not that a houseless fëa has no eyes) ache for straining to see something, anything in the blackness. The ringing silence is enough to induce insanity. But it is the immense solitude that is the most oppressive of all. There should be something there, must be something there; un-being is impossible to grasp for a spirit accustomed to the brightness and solidity of the living world.
Eventually, the mind grows desperate to fill the emptiness. Unmoored and unbounded, it flies through the stream of time, reliving the past, observing the present, discerning the future. Joyous memories are among the most painful. They only amplify the knowledge that joy, that life, may be lost forever, that one's existence has been eradicated. Visions of the present are worse. The helplessness of watching loved ones suffer and die, hearing consequences echo through time, is what truly breaks the spirit.
Through it all is the dim awareness that none of this exists beyond one's mind. How could it, when the Void is nonexistence itself? It is no subtle torture of Lord Námo's that brings such pain; it is the soul itself, stripped of all its protective bulwarks and laid bare to its own guilt. Denial has no place in the Void. Sooner or late, the truth must be acknowledged.
Such was my experience in that place of imprisonment, a particularly brutal one given the nature of my misdeeds. In that black place, I came to regret, and most bitterly. There was I confronted with visions of the fall of my people, of my sons – my precious children who were my life, my world! – and I knew with terrible certainty that these revelations were real.
There was no respite from the grief. It made a cruel weapon of my own heart, as sharp and burning as the Valaraukan blade which was my downfall. I had dragged my family into a war they could not win, and then by my death, I had rendered their Oath truly unbreakable. I had left them with no alternative but to sin and suffer and die.
I have never been skilled at checking my emotions, for it is easier to allow them to consume me. This philosophy drove me to flee the Máhanaxar after my father's death, leaving Nolofinwë to rule a broken, terrified people. I needed to be alone to give vent to my anguish. A stronger person would have stood before the Noldor, viciously swallowed down his own grief, and sworn to lead his kin through the darkness. But I have never been strong enough – or selfless enough – to consider anyone else when I am in pain. My pain consumes all.
The Void did not alter this pattern. When Lord Námo came at last to offer me release into his Halls, he found my fëa curled in upon itself like a dying star, its light nearly extinguished.
Recognizing the extent of my mental castigation and my unusually long imprisonment, Lord Námo determined to bring me to judgment straight away. He was delayed, however, for so weakened was my fëa upon release from the Void that it would have broken under the Allfather's power. I lay for some time on a low dais ringed with torches and free-standing candelabra, shivering with the chill of the Void (as much as a fëa can shiver) and trying desperately to take some comfort in the flames, as ever I had in life. This solace proved little at first, so deep in despair was I. Yet the ever-burning flames must have had some healing properties I could not understand, for in the end my health returned enough for me to face the Allfather.
The prospect of His judgment terrified me. Surely it could bring naught but further pain to a thrice-damned soul such as I.
It did, at first.
I was led before Lord Námo's obsidian throne. I had the horrible notion that this must be what it felt like to stand before the throne of Angamando and learn what torment the Dark Lord had chosen for his newest prisoner. There I waited while Lord Námo read the names of all who had lost their lives by my hand in a cold, impassive voice. I could not even begin to consider who these people might have been – whether they were warriors or simple fishermen or women and children unable to fight, whether they had families. I could only let the names wash over me like waves, soaking me in ages-old anguish.
I had collapsed in on myself again by the time it was over. It was too much.
Visions came to my open mind, thick and fast as the blood rain I had dreamed of in the Void. This was no punishment of the Allfather's, I knew. Indeed, no divine retribution could have been keener than my own agony assaulting me on all sides, my own white-hot regrets.
The Silmarilli burned in my sons' hands. Macalaurë's fell in a shining arc over the sea while Maitimo clutched his to his chest and plunged into a chasm of flames.
The Ambarussa lay side by side in the streets of Sirion, their hands clasped even in death. Elwing arrowed down from a tower and soared away in the likeness of a bird, taking her Silmaril forever out of reach.
Tyelkormo, Carnistir, and Curufinwë lay among the slain in Doriath, their bodies riddled with Sindarin arrows and pierced with Sindarin steel.
Maitimo hung from Thangorodrim by his wrist. His beautiful face was contorted with pain, his ribs clearly visible beneath his drawn flesh, the marks of unspeakable torture marring his body.
I lay on my back on Dor Daedeloth, the demon steel in my gut filling my veins with fire, my sons promising desperately that I would be all right even as their faces grew hazy –
The seas at Alqualondë were wine-dark and the beaches strewn with corpses instead of pearls. I was covered in the blood of my opponents, and it terrified me, but for a moment I forgot my grief –
My father was dead in Formenos, a dark stain blossoming over his chest. Sap from a shattered tree dripped onto his face, its sweet scent mingling with that of rot –
Lord Námo knelt before me and raised me up with uncharacteristic gentleness, saying, "You have faced the merciless Truth. Now lay it before the Allfather and receive His merciful judgment."
Terror was the first emotion to fight its way past my all-consuming guilt, yet no sooner did panic begin to cloud my mind than it was swept away by a strange calm not my own. Profound serenity filled me, and a voice that was and was not my father's whispered that all would be well. I believed it. It was not a question; it was not a statement. It simply was.
The pain piercing me to the core was soothed gently away, like a father kissing a child's scraped knee. Every hurt I had thought so deep and unhealable was simply gone. Sorrow gave way to joy as new visions flooded my mind.
The little Ambarussa ambushed me as I walked unwitting through one of their battlefields, seizing my legs and tackling me to the ground.
Curufinwë worked at his calligraphy with ink-flecked hands and refused to be distracted until I took the paper gently from him and sent him to wash up for supper.
Carnistir presented me with a begetting day gift of his own creation: a bracelet of scarlet and gold beads painstakingly painted with the Star of my house.
Tyelkormo got us lost on a hunting trip, and we were soaked with summer rain but delighted to feel it wash away the stickiness on our skin.
Macalaurë and I improvised duets upon his concert harp, and my heart filled with pride to know that he would soon far surpass my own skill in music.
Maitimo and I sat on the desk in my office, insulting the monarchy because it was so utterly stupid and laughing fit to be heard by the Allfather himself.
Nerdanel was curled in bed beside me. Her head rested on my chest, her copper hair aflame with the golden glow of Laurelin. Her countenance was one of utter quietude.
Atar extracted me from the forge after five days of work and told me in a way I could not resist that for goodness' sake, I must have a meal, a bath, and a rest.
Atar held me close as I departed for the feast on Taniquetil, promising to see me soon.
Was this to be my fate? To return to my family and revive the long-lost days of our joy?
The Love I felt then was so powerful that it hurt, and I thought for a moment that my fëa would give out under the strain. Yet it was good pain – the sort that purges and redeems and leaves a pure, sinless soul beneath. And it was wonderful. For ages I had known nothing but fear and misery, and now, to feel such unconditional love, such infinite mercy… I could not drink deeply enough.
Curufinwë, my dear, precious child… Of the paths presented to thee in life, thou didst choose always the most difficult. Thy sins are forgiven; go now and sin no more. Rejoice in thy life renewed, and use thy many gifts to better the world. In this way mayest thou earn redemption.
Redemption! You cannot imagine the sweetness of the word in that moment!
A final wave of Love and boundless joy swept over me. I felt my fëa shudder violently, embracing the emotions I needed so desperately yet were too powerful to endure.
And then I was in darkness again – not the suffocating darkness of the Void, but that which cloaks a child as he drifts off into slumber, secure in his father's arms.