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To Know The Future

Beta: Ilye

For years they sat in silent debate.

For years he waited, knowing the outcome. Knowing all.

He had spoken the Doom, had stared into the prideful anger of Eru's brightest, and he had been unable to offer words of wisdom, of compassion, of mercy. Such things had been stripped from him upon taking his place among the dead.

The others toiled in the gardens, wrought trinkets to bring light and continue to give support to those who had turned their backs on them. Darkness engulfed all around him; and he welcomed the inky blackness that gave him silence and solace in a moment of weakness. Seated upon his great throne, robed in swaths of black and cobalt, his eyes glowing in the shadows that danced around him, Námo was pale, motionless, and mourning.

His Lord's soft steps echoed loudly in his ears, warned him of yet another endless discussion of the current situation the Eldar had thrust all life into. He lifted his gaze, his thick lashes exposing the intense, bottomless windows of Námo's eyes. Manwë, wrapped in sky blue silks and white cottons, was his opposite: light where he was dark, vocal where he was restrained, loved where he was feared. Golden hair framed his youthful face; warm, open eyes that seemed to laugh at all, no matter the mood the Lord of the Valar may be in, met the solemn pools of Námo's.

"You wish to be them," Námo murmured in the stifling silence.

Manwë shook his head. "I admire them, brother, and I choose to take their form. You take their form as well, do you wish to be as they are?"

"I wish to be anything other than what I am," he replied, his voice so low as to be lost among the dancing shadows. There was a sadness that weighed heavily upon the Halls of Mandos, an oppressive gloom that Námo had gathered around him, clothed himself with. He lowered his lashes, hiding his eyes from one he had never hidden anything from.

"You are as He made you. Why would you wish to be what you are not?" Manwë asked as he crossed his arms, cocked his head in confusion. It was a foreign idea, to desire a destiny other than what Eru had intended them to fulfill.

More stillness, darkness, and silence. Beings as endless, as ageless, as they were felt no need to rush their thoughts or the words they finally chose. Námo sat with his eyes closed, his mouth in a grim line, and his body stiff on his throne that, to his mind, was built upon the bones of those newly slain by their own kin. Manwë remained impassive, radiating warmth in the face of Námo's coldness. When the dark Vala finally selected his words and opened his eyes, he was mildly surprised to feel a warm tear trickle over his cheek.

"You weep."

"You have wept for them, brother," Námo said. "But I do not weep neither for their rash choices nor their unavoidable fate. I weep for myself."

Manwë's eyes clouded, darkened as he pondered what Námo meant by such a thing. "Why would you weep for yourself?"

"There is a well of never-ending guilt within my breast. The past, the present, the future all clash in my mind and would rend my very being if I permitted it. To know all the trials, all the horrors each of these beings will endure, and yet unable to reach out and cool a feverish brow or soothe a broken heart. I can not lift my hands to prevent anything that is to come, and so I suffer now, long before the events have even passed." His voice, ever even and almost toneless, held mild tremors as he confessed his pain to the only one of his race he had ever loved as he had loved Him. "It is such a burden, to be their judge, to know their sins before they are committed."

"You speak of the banished King who has finally come home."

Námo's voice was sharp in his response. "No. I speak of them all. You are free to love them, to offer them counsel and affection. You know only a fraction of what will be, Manwë -- I know all that is. Feanáro's treachery and bloodstained hands were known to me long before his deeds, and while they broke my heart when time began, they broke my heart anew when the events came to pass. Yet there are others who will suffer far greater anguish; I cannot offer them any relief, any comfort. To know all that is to unfold, alone in such knowledge, makes me wish to be anything other than what I am, brother."

"You are Námo, Lord of the Halls of the Dead, Speaker of Dooms, the Appointed Judge, and you can never be anything more or less." Manwë unfolded his arms and approached Námo's shadowed throne. "You know all the agony each being will endure, my dearest friend, but you must also realize you know all the joys, the loves, the triumphs they will be blessed with. Do you also wish to be present for those?"

Námo glared up into Manwë's gentle gaze. "The suffering--"

"The suffering is but one aspect of their lives. Perhaps that was our folly, offering them such paradise with nothing but happiness and laughter. Perhaps we are the ones to blame for the deaths and their blood is truly upon our hands and not the Noldor who slew their kin. Perhaps we are the wicked. I do not have the answers, not to this, but you do. Content yourself with having the knowledge of the ultimate outcome of this tragedy, of knowing that events have been put into motion and a greater fate awaits us all." Manwë cupped Námo's hollow cheek and wiped the tear-track away. "I wanted to stop him, too, brother. To reach out and calm his angry heart. I hear their cries, carried to me on the wind, and though I should turn my back on them as they have done us, I cannot.

"And neither can you. Be Námo, fulfill His destiny for you as we all must in our own time." Manwë pressed a warm kiss to the dark Vala's brow before departing.

In the silent darkness, Námo gazed off into a future only he knew. He could never avert what would unfold. He knew the future, and to know it was to be bound by it. Blood would wash the face of Arda clean before any true joy was again found in it.

He sat on his throne built upon the bones of those newly slain, shedding no more tears, but forever consumed by his own guilt, tormented by a knowledge of what would be, yet always dreaming of what could be.


	Navigation single-part stories		To Know The Future Beta: Ilye For years they sat in silent debate. For years he waited, knowing the outcome. Knowing all. He had spoken the Doom, had stared into the prideful anger of Eru's brightest, and he had been unable to offer words of wisdom, of compassion, of mercy. Such things had been stripped from him upon taking his place among the dead. The others toiled in the gardens, wrought trinkets to bring light and continue to give support to those who had turned their backs on them. Darkness engulfed all around him; and he welcomed the inky blackness that gave him silence and solace in a moment of weakness. Seated upon his great throne, robed in swaths of black and cobalt, his eyes glowing in the shadows that danced around him, Námo was pale, motionless, and mourning. His Lord's soft steps echoed loudly in his ears, warned him of yet another endless discussion of the current situation the Eldar had thrust all life into. He lifted his gaze, his thick lashes exposing the intense, bottomless windows of Námo's eyes. Manwë, wrapped in sky blue silks and white cottons, was his opposite: light where he was dark, vocal where he was restrained, loved where he was feared. Golden hair framed his youthful face; warm, open eyes that seemed to laugh at all, no matter the mood the Lord of the Valar may be in, met the solemn pools of Námo's. "You wish to be them," Námo murmured in the stifling silence. Manwë shook his head. "I admire them, brother, and I choose to take their form. You take their form as well, do you wish to be as they are?" "I wish to be anything other than what I am," he replied, his voice so low as to be lost among the dancing shadows. There was a sadness that weighed heavily upon the Halls of Mandos, an oppressive gloom that Námo had gathered around him, clothed himself with. He lowered his lashes, hiding his eyes from one he had never hidden anything from. "You are as He made you. Why would you wish to be what you are not?" Manwë asked as he crossed his arms, cocked his head in confusion. It was a foreign idea, to desire a destiny other than what Eru had intended them to fulfill. More stillness, darkness, and silence. Beings as endless, as ageless, as they were felt no need to rush their thoughts or the words they finally chose. Námo sat with his eyes closed, his mouth in a grim line, and his body stiff on his throne that, to his mind, was built upon the bones of those newly slain by their own kin. Manwë remained impassive, radiating warmth in the face of Námo's coldness. When the dark Vala finally selected his words and opened his eyes, he was mildly surprised to feel a warm tear trickle over his cheek. "You weep." "You have wept for them, brother," Námo said. "But I do not weep neither for their rash choices nor their unavoidable fate. I weep for myself." Manwë's eyes clouded, darkened as he pondered what Námo meant by such a thing. "Why would you weep for yourself?" "There is a well of never-ending guilt within my breast. The past, the present, the future all clash in my mind and would rend my very being if I permitted it. To know all the trials, all the horrors each of these beings will endure, and yet unable to reach out and cool a feverish brow or soothe a broken heart. I can not lift my hands to prevent anything that is to come, and so I suffer now, long before the events have even passed." His voice, ever even and almost toneless, held mild tremors as he confessed his pain to the only one of his race he had ever loved as he had loved Him. "It is such a burden, to be their judge, to know their sins before they are committed." "You speak of the banished King who has finally come home." Námo's voice was sharp in his response. "No. I speak of them all. You are free to love them, to offer them counsel and affection. You know only a fraction of what will be, Manwë -- I know all that is. Feanáro's treachery and bloodstained hands were known to me long before his deeds, and while they broke my heart when time began, they broke my heart anew when the events came to pass. Yet there are others who will suffer far greater anguish; I cannot offer them any relief, any comfort. To know all that is to unfold, alone in such knowledge, makes me wish to be anything other than what I am, brother." "You are Námo, Lord of the Halls of the Dead, Speaker of Dooms, the Appointed Judge, and you can never be anything more or less." Manwë unfolded his arms and approached Námo's shadowed throne. "You know all the agony each being will endure, my dearest friend, but you must also realize you know all the joys, the loves, the triumphs they will be blessed with. Do you also wish to be present for those?" Námo glared up into Manwë's gentle gaze. "The suffering--" "The suffering is but one aspect of their lives. Perhaps that was our folly, offering them such paradise with nothing but happiness and laughter. Perhaps we are the ones to blame for the deaths and their blood is truly upon our hands and not the Noldor who slew their kin. Perhaps we are the wicked. I do not have the answers, not to this, but you do. Content yourself with having the knowledge of the ultimate outcome of this tragedy, of knowing that events have been put into motion and a greater fate awaits us all." Manwë cupped Námo's hollow cheek and wiped the tear-track away. "I wanted to stop him, too, brother. To reach out and calm his angry heart. I hear their cries, carried to me on the wind, and though I should turn my back on them as they have done us, I cannot. "And neither can you. Be Námo, fulfill His destiny for you as we all must in our own time." Manwë pressed a warm kiss to the dark Vala's brow before departing. In the silent darkness, Námo gazed off into a future only he knew. He could never avert what would unfold. He knew the future, and to know it was to be bound by it. Blood would wash the face of Arda clean before any true joy was again found in it. He sat on his throne built upon the bones of those newly slain, shedding no more tears, but forever consumed by his own guilt, tormented by a knowledge of what would be, yet always dreaming of what could be.