Chapter Text
For some abominable reason, Námo had called Fëanor to his main hall for an audience. Fëanor did not want to meet with the Doomsman—Dooms-Vala?—but if he didn’t have to look at those abominable tapestries from Vairë, then he was happy to go anywhere. His sons had been excluded from the meeting, which Fëanor thought was odd, but he went nonetheless. He had no other choice.
Those in Mandos’s halls had no corporeal bodies, but drifted through the vast expanses of columns, pillars, and tapestries as houseless spirits. They burned with bright color, or sometimes, none at all—some spirits were stark white, glaring as that sun Turcafinwë had told him about.
Mandos sat on his mighty throne, high over Fëanor. Mandos always had a scowl on his face whenever Fëanor was cursed with his visage; he hoped it was because of him. Fëanor was delighted to be a thorn in the side of Vala, especially the Doomsman that had cursed him and his people.
“Curufinwë,” Mandos said, his voice echoing throughout the halls. Fëanor frowned—as much as a spirit could—and Mandos continued. “How long have you been in my halls?”
Fëanor recalled the many tapestries lining the incorporeal walls and columns, the vast rooms filled only with events of Middle-earth. “These three Ages you have… held me here, and my sons alongside.”
Fëanor had spent three Ages in Námo's halls, which felt to be far too long for any elf; Finrod hadn’t even spent a full week in the Halls, and still! Fëanor and his sons were still there! But Fëanor had learned to slow his anger in the Halls, which he suspected improved his conversation skills with those he had slain. Not that his conversation skills needed any improvement, but Mandos thought they did, and Miríel had not objected—Feanor had felt strangely betrayed by that.
“Dost thou wish to leave?” Námo asked.
How many times had he asked Fëanor that very question? Too many times to count; Fëanor had tried. It was irritating by now, but Fëanor, no matter how much it irked his conscious, would not risk his sons by the Doomsman’s ire.
“I do, Doomsman,” Fëanor answered through gritted teeth.
Námo nodded; a new response. “I see. I shall send thee and thy… brood elsewhere.”
Fëanor was taken aback. He had not expected a positive answer from Mandos, and it was a shock, needless to say, to recieve agreement.
“It shall be in the cold,” Námo continued, and Fëanor felt his heart plummet. “It is to the north of here, and thou shalt be put to work.”
Great. Manual labor. So fun.
It was probably also retribution for the Eldar lost on the Helcaraxë, so Feanor could not find it in himself to protest. He felt a little guilty about that; Elenwë had been one of the only people of his half-brother’s kin that had been bearable to even speak to, and he was a little disappointed when she appeared in Námo’s halls. Of course, she’d screamed at him and worriedly search for her daughter for her entire time in the Halls until she had been reembodied to see her newly arrived daughter (And her son-in-law) in Tirion.
“Dost thou accept?” Mandos finished, and Fëanor wanted to say yes, immediately, but he knew that to be folly.
“I shall confer with my sons,” Fëanor decided, and Mandos gestured for him to leave.
— — —
All of Fëanor’s children—save Kanafinwë, who was still living—were sitting in a circle. Nelyafinwë was walking around them in a slow loop, and the rest kept fidgeting in their seats. Nelyafinwë held his left hand hovered over their heads as he passed, moving it up and down in a taunting manner every once in a while.
But then, almost quick as light, his hand firmly dropped on Morifinwë’s head and he dashed to escape his little brother. They ran in circles for a while, until Morifinwë caught up to Nelyafinwë and grabbed what would be the lapel of his shirt.
As soon as Nelyafinwë had wrapped his arm around his brother in a headlock, Fëanor cleared his throat. His other sons, who had been cheering from their circle, whipped around; Nelyafinwë let Morifinwë go limp in his hold, looking to his father.
“Hello, Atar,” Nelyafinwë greeted with a smile, ignoring the squirming brother in his grasp.
“Let me go, Maedhros, or by Varda’s tits I’ll–” Morifinwë started, trying to push away from his brother.
Nelyafinwë gave him a gentle kiss on the head and said very lovingly, “No.”
Fëanor, who had felt generally defeated after his meetings with Námo, smiled indulgently at the sight of his sons’ brawling. “Let go of your brother, Nelyo,” he said, and Nelyafinwë released Morifinwë.
“What’d he say, Atar?” Turcafinwë asked, grinning mischievously.
Fëanor waved his hand, dismissing the question. “I’ll get to that. Gather round, my sons, for there has been a proposition.”
The children—Fëanor always saw them as his children, that was simply what they were, regardless of how many years they had lived more than him—turned to face him, Nelyafinwë and Morifinwë settling back into their circle.
As they looked to him, they all muttered between themselves, and Fëanor heard, “A proposition from anyone besides Amilë? Unlikely, even if it was Amilë,” from Pityafinwë. His children, honestly. They had been through kinslayings and wars innumerable, and still so immature. Fëanor decided not to remember the fact that Nerdanel had not asked to see him once in Námo’s halls . It was irrelevant.
“Námo has given me a proposition to consider,” Fëanor said, pointedly looking to Pityafinwë, who was trying to hide his grin behind his twin brother, who was nudging him away from his personal space.
“He has given us the option to regain our bodies–” the gathered group gasped, save Nelyafinwë, who had raised a suspicious eyebrow. “–on one condition.”
The gasps turned into groans of irritation and dismay. “Why?” Telufinwë wondered. “Haven’t we been here long enough?”
“I suppose not,” Fëanor sighed. “But the condition is manual labor.”
The group all murmured amongst themselves, not too unhappy about their punishment. They had built cities and strongholds in Beleriand, almost too many to count, so this shouldn’t be too difficult.
“Did he say where?” Nelyafinwë asked, pragmatic to the last. His Nelyafinwë always thought of everything: likely a byproduct of being without in Beleriand. Whenever Fëanor thought too hard about that, he felt a pang in his chest, where his heart would have been if he had a body.
“To the north,” Fëanor said, and Morifinwë glared at his father. He had not been fond of the cold, even though he used to dwell near the mountains of the dwarves—whatever those were.
Nelyafinwë frowned. “And you’ve come to us?”
Fëanor shrugged. He had not asked what his sons had wanted in the past. He did not think, only did. He did not think about the repercussions of his oath, he did not think on how his kinslaying would affect his sons, and he did not think about their wellbeing in Middle-earth.
They would talk about some atrocity of Beleriand and laugh it off, or reminisce on a time of relative hardship that they believed to be peace, and it terrified Fëanor. More than that, it pained him. Why had he led his sons to Doom and death? How could he have been so angry, so mad, so insane as to drive his sons to deeds so wicked that he wept at the thought of them?
His heart broke to hear them remember times that they should not have gone through, people they should not have had to kill, homes they should not have had to abandon.
But now, Fëanor had seen the dreaded consequences of his fell deeds and knew that should any Power give him the chance to repent, he would in a heartbeat. His sons still grieved the people lost and killed by their hands! Fëanor would do anything to give them closure, even just to see them happy again. They had their moments in the Halls, little games they played in the interim, where they laughed and joked and enjoyed each others’ company, but it never lasted. A silence would fall over them—Nelyafinwë's face would grow stony, Turcafinwë would sneer, Curufinwë would snap at whoever spoke, Morifinwë would glare at anyone who passed, Pityafinwë would simply stare into the darkness, and Telufinwë would sit as far apart from his brothers as he could possibly get.
A dark well would open within Fëanor whenever he saw them quiet; his boisterous, happy sons reduced the shells and husks of once bright fëa.
But it was not only Fëanor’s decision about leaving the Halls; his sons were to go with him, and he would not force them again.
“Of course I have come to ask you!” Fëanor said hotly. “How could I not?”
— — —
Fëanor strode into Mandos’s throne room delighted with his news.
“Námo!” he shouted, and the word echoed throughout the vast hall, a tinny reverberation to encompass everything.
“What is it, Curufinwë?” Mandos asked wearily, appearing suddenly on his throne.
Námo was a dark Vala, and seemed to be hewn from shadow itself. He was grim and tall, with a raiment of grey about his shoulders and a silver veil across his face. His face was pale and gaunt, and cut through the dark of the Halls very strangely. Fëanor had no idea what Vairë saw in him, but then again, Fëanor did not see much of the Valar.
“I have made my decision,” he announced.
“And what dost thou say?”
“We accept!” Fëanor cried. “Now get us out of this dark place!”