Book I

Rebirth

I

Grace ~ Part I

The Void is akin to a glistening black python of crushing size, and ere long, it suffocates its victims.

The darkness enters greedily through whatever opening it can find, filling one's chest and lungs with a pressure so inexorable that one is certain one's heart will give out (it matters not that a houseless fëa has no heart; this is not important). When one does manage to drag in a gasping breath, it is like inhaling tar; it makes one cough and choke. One's eyes ache for straining to see something, anything in the blackness, and the ringing silence that fills one's ears is enough drive one mad. The immense solitude is the most oppressive of all, and one is only too aware of it. One prays for light and air not choked with darkness. One vows to give up one's own soul for these things. It seems a small price to pay.

Eventually, the vast silence is broken, but only by the Demons.

One never sees them, but they make their presence undeniable. Their claws click on the stone floor – circling, always circling – their low growls rumble through the dark, their hot breath gusts against one's skin so that one feels their jaws must snap upon one's neck at any moment. On occasion, they can be heard tearing apart another prisoner, and the mingled screams and snarls are almost more terrible than the silence – almost. The walls and floors become sticky with blood that seems to be everywhere at once.

The terror builds and builds until it becomes unbearable, not knowing when the wolves will strike but certain that they must… It chills one to the bone with a physical cold. It settles in one's chest and freezes there, so that one shivers convulsively and can breathe only in sharp little gasps. The prospect of spending an eternity in the choking dark and absolute solitude, with the wolves circling, is overwhelming. It breaks the spirit. One lacks the strength to fight the hopelessness any further.

One's last conscious thought is that it is strange to be so afraid, for surely none of this can be real. A fëa is incapable of feeling cold or pressure, or of being devoured by Valaraukar...

But then, that leaves the uncomfortable alternative that one has gone utterly mad.

Such was my experience in the Void, a particularly brutal one due to my stubborn refusal to repent upon my coming to Mandos. No doubt Lord Námo contrived to force me to it, when I would not admit my regret, and the Void was his instrument. In that black place, I came indeed to regret, and most bitterly. There was I confronted with visions of the fall of my people, and of my sons – my precious children who were my life, my world! – and unlike the wolves, I knew with terrible certainty that these revelations were real. Denial has no place in the Void, not for long. I could do naught but face the truth.

The grief was incredible, and there was no respite from it. Lord Námo wielded it as the cruelest of weapons, sharp and burning as the Valaraukan blade which was my downfall. My people, my sons, dead by my hand… I had dragged them 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, and I brought them to it. Their deaths were my fault. It was this knowledge which broke me in the end.

I have never been skilled at keeping my emotions in check. It is easier to allow them to consume me – more painful, but easier. Such was the philosophy which drove me to flee the Máhanaxar after my father's death and leave Nolofinwë to rule a broken, terrified people, for 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 them that he would lead them through the darkness. But I have never been strong enough – or selfless enough – to consider any other when I am in pain. My pain consumes all.

This pattern did not change in the Void. When Lord Námo came at last to offer me release into his Halls, he found me curled upon the floor, trembling uncontrollably, wishing upon myself all manner of torments in payment for what I had done to my children, too exhausted even to weep.

Seeing the extent of my mental castigation, and that I had been in the Void more than the total time spent from death to rebirth by the most sinful of my followers, Lord Námo determined to bring me to judgment straight away. This was delayed, however, for so weakened was my fëa that it would have broken under the Allfather's power. For some time I lay 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 fire, as ever I had in life. This proved little at first, so deep was I in despair, yet the ever-burning flames must have had some healing properties I could not understand, for in the end I did return enough to health to face the Allfather. The prospect of His judgment terrified me. Surely, for a thrice-damned soul such as myself, it could bring naught but further pain.

It did, at first. I was led before Lord Námo's obsidian throne, and I had the horrible notion that this must be what it felt like to stand before the throne of Angamando, waiting to learn what torment the Dark Lord had chosen for his newest prisoner. There I stood while he read the names of all who had lost their lives either by my hand or in my war in a cold, impassive voice. I knew that I had caused ruin on a grand scale, of course, but never had I suspected that there was so very much blood on my hands! I could not think, could not even begin to consider who these people might once have been – whether they were warriors or simple fishermen, whether they had families, whether they were women and children unable to fight. I could only let the names wash over me like waves, soaking me in ages-old anguish.

I was on my knees by the end of it, I know, tears running silently down my cheeks. Lord Námo knelt before me, slid his cool hands into mine with uncharacteristic gentleness, and raised me up again, saying, "You have faced the merciless Truth. You know for what you must answer. Now lay it all before the Allfather and receive His infinitely merciful Judgment."

Terror was the first of my emotions to fight its way past the grief which had consumed me. 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 was simply the Truth.

To my open mind visions came, thick and fast as the blood rain I had dreamed of in the Void.

The Silmarilli burned in the hands of my sons; Makalaurë's fell in a shining arc over the sea and Maitimo's was clutched close to his chest, plunging with him into a chasm riven with 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 sea bird, taking her Silmaril forever out of reach. Tyelkormo, Carnistir, and Curufinwë lay among the slain in Doriath, blood pooling around them, their bodies riddled with Sindarin arrows and pierced by Sindarin steel. Maitimo was chained by his wrist to Thangorodrim, his beautiful face contorted with pain, every one of his ribs clearly visible beneath his drawn flesh, the marks of unspeakable tortures marring his body.

I was on my back on Dor Daedeloth, the Valaraukan blade 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 were strewn with corpses rather than pearls, and the blood of an opponent had spattered my lips and its taste had awoken a primal urge to kill and kill and kill, and it terrified me, but oh, I needed to feel something other than grief –

My father was dead in Formenos, a dark stain blossoming over his chest, sap from a shattered tree above him dripping onto his face, its sweet scent mingling with that of rot –

It was too much, just too much. Assaulted by agony on all sides, I crumpled to the floor, shuddering with great, silent sobs. Yet no sooner did the pain pierce me to the core than it was soothed gently away, as easily as a father kisses away the hurt of his son's scraped knees. Every hurt I had thought so deep and so 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, flecking his hands with ink and refusing 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. Makalaurë and I were improvising duets upon his concert harp, and my heart was filled with pride to see 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 resting on my chest, her copper hair aflame with the golden glow of Laurelin. Her countenance was one of absolute 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 ere my departure for the feast on Taniquetil, promising to see me soon.

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 of it.

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 thy 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 for me 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, cradled securely in his father's arms.