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The Halls were dark. They usually were, but it was noted nonetheless. The marble floors echoed with the sounds of disembodied voices and the chiseled pillars reached into the unseen ceiling, shrouded in a dark fog. The faint clacking of a loom’s shuttle wound between each column, and for once, Námo wished that his beloved Vairë had not taken the old Elvenqueen as her handmaiden. The girl was polite enough, of course, but always filled the halls with a sense of melancholy. It did not help that she was the only living elf in the area, too.
While Vairë’s House was not within the Halls of Mandos, they were certainly close by. Námo wondered how the repetitive sound of a loom could travel so far.
The racket, however, was the only thing that kept him sane at the moment. Curufinwë stood before him, whining, as he often did. Námo kept his steely gaze fixed on the old king but let his mind wander as Curufinwë repeated the same grievances as he always did: there is nothing here to occupy my mind, my sons must not be kept here and they need more help, and why did that boy Ingoldo get to leave I want to see my wife, too!
Námo wanted to tell him that he should occupy his mind by healing it instead of finding ways to distract himself from his anger, that he was giving Curufinwë’s sons the best mental care he could find—which was quite a lot, given that was Námo’s Hall’s job—and that Finrod had actually been a good person, which warranted his early release. Frankly, Námo was still wondering if that had been a good idea; the poor boy might still be suffering from post-traumatic stress from his death and other various events, and Námo hated to see the Eldar so tormented.
When Curufinwë finished his complaints, he stood straight and looked up at Námo accusingly. Námo did not blame him; Curufinwë was not to leave these Halls until the end of Arda, and even Námo needed a break from the grey after a few centuries.
“Well?” Curufinwë added. “Nothing to say, have you?”
Námo hummed. He leaned down to look at the elf before him. “I shall give you nothing. Return to your sons, lest I keep you separate.”
Námo would never separate them. Not only was it cruel, the whole lot of them would cling together like Vairë’s stitches, immovable. All seven of them were more or less dependent on each other—seven, because Makalaure had yet to arrive; Námo wondered what the poor elf was up to. Maybe kidnapping more children, who knows?
(Maglor is currently in Imladris, pretending to be a librarian and music writer. Everyone knows that he is not a librarian, but they indulge his disguise anyway.)
Curufinwë’s ghostly face hardened. “Thou shalt do no such thing!” he cried before storming off, fuming.
As soon as he was out of sight, Námo leaned back against his throne with a sigh. Why had he not made it cushioned? Made it a bit larger, perhaps? Why had he wanted to look so regal and intimidating when his back was going to be condemned to an ache for all of eternity?
This was why Vairë and Irmo had decorated the house; Námo was no good with decoration.
When this thought left his mind, he wondered if he really should go see Curufinwë’s boy, Maitimo. He could not have gotten worse, could he? Námo had placed him in the most well-lit and peaceful corner of the Halls; his brothers, of course, had followed, along with his father and grandfather, so Námo doubted he was getting much peace anyway. With six bickering brothers and your father and grandfather arguing over everything and nothing for too long, Námo supposed that Maitimo might want to find another chasm to leap into.
Perhaps it was Curufinwë’s presence that was harming him; Curufinwë had certainly done enough to harm his eldest, so perhaps it would be wise to separate them. Temporarily, of course; Miriel would storm his Halls and shout at him if he caused harm to her son, and while she was tiny and knew little of combat, it did not keep her from being frightening. And, following Miriel, would be a very disappointed Vairë, which Mandos could simply not abide in.
Separating Maitimo from his family might do him some good; when Carnistir had first arrived with Tyelkormo and Atarince, he had demanded time away from his brothers and family. Looking back, it had certainly been necessary; Tyelkormo screamed at Curufinwë, Atarince screamed at Tyelkormo for screaming at Curufinwë, Curufinwë screamed at both of them for screaming, and finally Finwë screamed at all of them for screaming. Umbarto simply sat in the corner, paging through a Sindarin dictionary that Námo had given him after the boy had complained about being unable to communicate with the other fear in the Halls.
Carnistir’s time alone helped his greatly, and Námo was seriously considering–
Eyes, yellow eyes.
Námo whipped around, scowling, to find a pair of large, yellow eyes staring at him from behind another ashen pillar. They were framed by a stark blue and furry exterior, triangular ears, and a permanently grinning maw. Its teeth protruded outwards from its pink gums, and strangely enough, a black bird sat atop its head, staring dead into Námo’s eyes.
And, the most fascinating thing, the azure creature’s head was protruding from the floor.
It was a feline, clearly, and it slowly blinked before rising from the ground in a pool of iridescent blue. The bird on its head squawked, and Námo realized that it had six eyes. Unusual. Then again, Iluvatar could create whatever his good heart desired, so Námo simply chose not to question such things.
“Harken, creature.” Námo’s voice boomed across the hall, and the feline halted; the bird flapped its wings indignantly. It seemed to be wearing a hat. “What brings thee to my halls?”
The feline tilted its head.
What are you called? An eerie voice echoed around the pillars.
“I am Námo Mandos, the Judge. What brings thee and thine to my domain?”
We have wandered off course, the voice explained, and the feline blinked; Mandos supposed that the creature was the owner of the voice. Where have we wandered?
“The Halls of Mandos,” Námo replied, but, seeing that these newcomers likely knew little about his realm, added, “the Halls of the Dead. The spirits of elves dwell here for a time.”
The feline approached. Another voice, higher pitch, sounded. This cat here is Derpy; we have journeyed through our Honmoon and seem to have gotten lost.
Mandos was taught to welcome guests and relatively welcoming; Iluvatar had taught him this, at least. “Would you rest a while here? I can have food brought and refreshments summoned, should you seek a respite from your travels.”
Derpy, the blue cat, glanced slowly up at the bird before stalking forward toward Námo’s throne. As it approached, Námo felt a chill shudder down his spine; Derpy nudged his knee, bumping into Námo’s robes cheerfully and looking back up expectantly.
Námo hesitantly raised his hand, frowning, and the bird flew off to land on the back of Námo's throne. Námo, still confused by the events of the hour, gently patted the top of the cat's head. Derpy leaned into the touch, purring contentedly as Námo distractedly ran a painted nail along one of dark markings on his head.
The higher voice, the bird, spoke again. You mentioned refreshments, I believe?
Námo looked up from petting the cat—if only Irmo and Manwë could see him now—and nodded, his silver veil covering his faint smile. “Indeed, I did.”
— — —
Before the spirit creatures left, they explained to Námo the concept of their magical honmoon, and the demons that dwelt beneath.
“Your world must be wrought with strife,” Námo noted as he poured an enamel bowl of water for the cat and summoned with a wave of his hand a bowl of seed for the bird; he sat down in front of the two creatures, watching them closely. They had taken up residence in front of Námo's throne, sitting on a pile of tasseled pillows and embroidered covers.
Indeed, Derpy replied. Gwi-ma has many servants. We have a friend that needs help. It is in our fair fortune to have stumbled upon you, O Námo Mandos. I ask that you– Oh, hold on one moment.
Derpy looked away from Námo and turned his attention to the floor, where the two bowls were seated. He carefully rearranged them to his liking before looking back up at Námo.
I ask that you help a friend of mine. She is… troubled. There are three of them, in truth. Could you help them? Derpy wondered, and Námo frowned.
“These friends of yours,” Námo said slowly, “what are they? Do they dwell within Gwi-ma's depths or do they reside atop your honmoon? Are they living or are they dead?”
Our friends live! The bird replied in its shrill voice.
“Then they may not enter my realm,” Námo said sadly, shaking his head. “My Halls are for only the dead. I am sorry.”
Derpy bowed his head, dejected, but nodded. We thank you for your consideration. For our refreshments, is there anything that we can do for you?
Námo paused, thinking. “Indeed, there is something that you may do for me.”
— — —
“Ohmyheavens, it's a blue tiger!” Ambarussa shouted, his hands on his head as he marveled at Derpy.
Carnistir soon approached his brother, wondering what the commotion was. “What do you mean, a blue tig– What in Iluvatar's name is that?”
He pointed to the bird. “And why is it wearing a hat?”
Námo oversaw the interaction, silent.
Carnistir looked up at him with a raised brow. “Well?” he asked. “Why does it have a hat?”
“Thou must ask it thyself,” Námo answered, and Carnistir rolled his eyes. Námo knew he liked that one best.
I stole it from Derpy, the bird said proudly, and Carnistir nodded, satisfied.
Tyelkormo appeared from the shadows and poked at Derpy's markings from behind, and the cat eerily turned around to stare at him, open-mouthed as usual. After a long moment of silence, Tyelkormo backed away, nodding respectfully.
Atarince approached soon after, leaning forward and tilting his head as he examined the feline creature. He straightened and raised a hand to feel its ears.
“You are in possession of a very fine pair of ears,” he said. “Symmetrical and soft. Be proud.”
Derpy purred.
Maitimo appeared soon after, his hands folded behind his back as he coldly looked over the cat. Námo almost wondered if he was considering the warmth of his hide before Maitimo ran a hand over Derpy’s back, ruffling his fur all the way up to his neck. When he approached Derpy’s face, Maedhros crouched down and stared directly into Derpy’s eyes. He glanced down at his jaws, then his little nose, and returned to stare at Derpy’s eyes.
“A fine beast,” Maitimo noted, straightening. “Good teeth. What else have you got?”
Derpy opened his mouth even further and unfurled his tongue, revealing a shining dagger.
Maedhros nodded, approving. “Very good,” he said, and walked off.
Finwë and Curufinwë soon arrived; Finwë took little interest in the creatures, and instead began speaking with his grandsons. Curufinwë looked over the tiger briefly before looking up at the bird.
The bird blinked, all six eyes opening and closing in unison.
“Fascnating,” Curufinwë whispered. “From where do you hail?”
Elsewhere, the bird answered.
“As do I,” Curufinwë replied.
With that, Námo left them. Perhaps the presence of the newcomers would help them.